


On The Road: The Adventures of Ben Braden & Dean Winchester, Hunters Extraordinaire

by Domino_Darkwolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ben Braden Grown Up, Hunter Ben Braden, Hunter Dean, Hunters & Hunting, Monster of the Week, Monsters, Other, Saving People Hunting Things, Tales from the future, The Family Business, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 73,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domino_Darkwolf/pseuds/Domino_Darkwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Braden has been hunting for seven years when he finds himself faced with the opportunity of a lifetime; a chance to team up with the legendary Dean Winchester. At first, hunting with the Winchester is a dream come true for Ben. But the years have not been kind to Dean, and the young hunter begins to learn who the man he's been admiring from afar really is. And then he discovers just why Dean seems so familiar.</p><p>Set Rated for language and alcohol abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This first appeared as a short, one-shot on fanfiction.net under the title "A Brief Encounter With My Idol, Dean Winchester". It wasn't until after I submitted it (using the pen name Captain Monster Masher) that I came up with the idea to take the story further than a simple short. I'm posting this as chapter one here instead of as a solo story.  
> Also, I have chosen not to add an archive warning for "major character death" since no one technically dies in the story. However, one of the major characters has died (pre-story) and will not be appearing here. I hope that doesn't defer you from reading - I'm told it's quite good.

At the end of a dirt road somewhere outside Bloomington, Indiana is a house. It's a ramshackle structure that stands three stories high, and if the lights weren't on it would look like just another abandoned old home. A weathered sign swings from an old post that tells travelers they've arrived at the "Spiritless Spirit" - a tavern and inn you won't find on any travel websites or hear about at the camber of commerce.

The inside doesn't look much better. Not if you're one of its regular patrons, anyway. The lighting is dim, which is probably good since it nicely covers the grime that clings hopelessly to the uneven wooden floors and green painted walls. An old, dusty juke box sits in the corner under the stuffed head of a buck, someone's hunting trophy that's been mounted crooked on the wall. Wooden tables and chairs in mismatched sizes, shapes and colors are set up around a square, blacktop bar island that's stationed in the center of the tavern.

It doesn't look like much. It's dark, dingy and a little macabre. It's drafty, grimy and dank. But it's important. It's a place for wayward sons and daughters to hang their hats and rest their heads before they return to the road. A home away from home for people like me.

Hunters.

Tonight the tavern is occupied by around a dozen or so hunters. Little attention is given to my presence as I shake rain from my leather jacket and amble towards the bar. Most eyes remain on the drink that sits before them, their cards, or off into nothing. The eye I catch is that of the mop topped brunette bartender and owner of this haven who grins warmly as I saunter towards him. His round, blue eyes sparkle happily, as they always do when a hunter finds his way "home". His skinny frame moves closer to me as I approach and he temporarily abandons the glass he's polishing to give me his full attention.

"Ben, my man!" he greets me with a warm welcome and a firm handshake. "Welcome back, buddy."

"Hey Garth," I return with a smile. 

Garth. The hunter turned werewolf turned inn keeper. He's easily the friendliest guy I know. It's probably what keeps him alive in the career he's chosen for himself. There aren't too many monsters on the planet who could get away running an establishment whose sole patronage consists of people who track and kill things like him.

"How's business?"

"Pretty decent," Garth replies. "Considering I run a business that caters specifically to hunters. How you doing, man? Between hunts I take it?"

"More or less," I respond with a casual shrug, claiming a barstool as I converse. "You got any rooms available?"

"Inn's pretty full tonight," he tells me as he fills a mug with a cool, amber colored ale. "But I think I've got a room left." He pauses to slide the now full mug towards me. "What was the monster de jour? And don't skimp on the details."

It's not hard to tell that Garth misses hunting. Every time someone comes in fresh from a hunt, he hounds them for details. He clings to their every word before staring off dreamily into space, fantasizing he was the one slaying the vampire or burning bones.

"Just an angry spirit," I tell him with a casual shrug before I take a sip of my beer. "Why don't you just start hunting again?"

"Someone's gotta work the phones for you idjiots," Garth says with a small smile as he returns to polishing glasses. "Besides, a monster hunting monsters? That stopped feeling okay real quick. I ain't a hypocrite." He pauses for a second to anxiously wiggle his brows at me. "So, that vengeful spirit you just hunted...?"

"Oh, you know how it is," I tell him between sips. "Just another pissed off ghost killing people. Some hippie with a grudge against some corporate sleaze bags."

"A pissed off hippie?" Garth questions with an amused tone.

"I don't make ghosts," I respond. "I just kill 'em." I pause as a small smile creeps across my face, a response to a detail that makes this case unique and one Garth would love to hear about. "This ghost didn't have bones to burn."

"What was he tired to?" Garth asks with interest.

"A small forest in a downtown park," I reply and Garth laughs.

"You had to set a park on fire?" he laughs and I know he's picturing me setting a slew of trees ablaze.

"Yep," I admit. "What else was I supposed to do? These "green" cremations don't exactly make the job easy. The guy's corpse was turned into fertilizer. His remains were literally scattered around a miniature forest."

"I ain't complaining," Garth says, shaking his head with a look of amusement plastered on his face. "I get it. I just never had to deal with a hippie ghost before. 'Scuse me, I gotta take this." He pauses to answer one of the several phones he keeps behind the bar. "FBI, this is Johnstone."

While Garth plays FBI, I glance about the bar. Most of the faces here are familiar, but not all. My eyes wander about until they settle upon a stranger who captivates my attention. 

He sits alone at a small table with a whiskey in his hand and a worn leather jacket pulled over his slumped shoulders. From where I sit he looks to be mid forties, maybe close to fifty with streaks of silver lining his short, dark brown hair just above his ears on either side of his head. His right eye, which appears green in color, stares blankly at his drink. His left is concealed by a black patch.

I've never met him, but for some reason he seems familiar.

"Hey Garth," I speak once the ex-hunter has hung up, pointing to the stranger. "Who's that guy over there?"

"Hm?" Garth mumbles absently as his eyes attempt to follow my finger. "Oh. That's Dean Winchester."

I nearly spit a mouthful of beer as the name reaches my ears.

"Dean Winchester?" I echo, wiping the few drops of ale that did escape in my moment of surprise. " _The_ Dean Winchester?"

"Is there any other Dean Winchester?" Garth replies with a small smile, clearly proud to know the guy despite what his casual demeanor might try to imply. "I take it you've heard of him?"

"Who hasn't?" I say with an impressed breath, my gaze falling back to the legend.

For a silent moment, all I can do is stare at him in partial disbelief. Starstruck probably isn't the best word to use, but it's the first one that comes to mind. Is he really here? Sitting in Garth's tavern? At the same time as me? My freaking idol?

After a few minutes of awkward staring I shake my head and rise to my feet. I can't just sit here and stare at him. Not when there's an opportunity to shake the man's hand.

"Where you goin'?" Garth asks with a cocked brow.

"I'm gonna go say hi," I respond as I nervously gather my mug.

"I wouldn't," Garth warns, shaking his head as he speaks. "He prefers solitude."

"Come on," I roll my eyes. "How often am I gonna get a chance to meet him?"

"Alright," Garth says, shaking his head. He places a rocks glass on the bar and quickly fills it with whiskey. "I'd take this with you, though."

I take the man's advice and, with a nervous breath, I slowly stride towards the table where Dean Winchester sits. In my head I practice what I could say, potential conversation starters and compliments. In my head he's pleasant and flattered that I look up to him, despite the fact I should know better. Any hunter whose been in the game as long as he has and lives to tell the tale is seldom pleasant.

"Dean?" I speak with an anxious breath as I approach. "Dean Winchester?"

"Whaddya want?" the man harshly grumbles into his drink, not bothering at all to even give me so much as a glance.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you," I quickly apologize for breaking his solitude. "I just... you're kind of my idol and I just wanted to say hi, I guess."

Dean turns his head to look up at me, his expression a blend between amusement, puzzlement and annoyance.

"How in god's name could I possibly be anybody's idol?" his gravely voice speaks and all I can think to do is shrug.

He studies me with his remaining eye and, as he does this, I can see three long, deep scars that run diagonally from just above the brow to somewhere just below his cheekbone on the left side of his face. The scars are partially hidden by the black patch he wears over the place his left eye used to be. Battle wounds he received while taking on the Jersey Devil in a solo battle, or so the stories would have you believe. 

"You look familiar," he tells me after a moment of silence has passed, squinting his eye as he speaks. "Have we met?"

"Oh, no," I shake my head. I place the glass of whiskey on the table in front of him before I anxiously stick out my right hand for him to shake. "Sorry. I'm Ben. Ben Braden."

He attempts to disguise the onslaught of emotions that hit him when I give him my name, and he does it pretty well. But, for a split, second I can detect in his eye recognition and guilt as he seems to hold his breath. As if my name means something to him. Me, a young gun who hasn't done anything remotely as epic as stopping the Apocalypse.

"Ben?" he echoes at last, ignoring my extended hand. "Braden?"

"Uh, yeah," I confirm with an awkward breath. "Why?"

"I just... I've heard of you," he shakes his head as he speaks, like he's trying to get rid of a feeling of... I don't know. Shock maybe?

"You've heard of me?" I say with a note of disbelief.

"Yeah," he nods before motioning to the empty chair across the table from him. "Please, sit."  
He denied my handshake but I feel absolutely zero disappointment. Dean Winchester offered me a seat. Not only did the Dean Winchester offer me a seat, he's heard of me. _Me_.

"I gotta tell you, Mr. Winchester," I begin as I take an excited but nervous seat across from him. "This is a huge honor. I mean, you're a freaking legend."

"It's just Dean," he corrects me, cringing slightly at the formal title. "Mr. Winchester was my grandfather."

"Of course," I nod, still nervously excited. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't call me that either."

For an awkward minute, Dean just kind of stares at me. I might be enthralled, sitting here with the legend, but now I'm also beginning to feel intimidated. I can't read him, not now. All I can do is let him give me a good looking over and hope he's not judging me too harshly.

"How old are you now, Ben?" he asks, picking up a glass of whiskey as he speaks.

"Just turned twenty-five sir... er, Dean," I fumble my response.

"Yeah?" Dean says. "When'd you start hunting?"

"When I graduated high school," I reply. "About seven years now."

Dean gives a small nod. He might be a hard one to read, but he doesn't seem to be making small talk. For some reason, he seems genuinely interested in me.

"So, Ben," he goes on. "What got you into hunting? It's not a family business or anything, right?"

"No," I shake my head, laughing slightly at the visual of my mom, a yoga instructor, hunting spirits and monsters. "I don't know. I guess I'd have to say it was fate."

Dean scoffs at the word before consuming the contents of his first drink in a single gulp.

"What?" I have to ask. "You don't believe in fate?"

"Oh no," he replies, shaking his head as he gulps down the whiskey in his mouth. "I know for a fact she exists. I'm the one who got her fired."

"What do you mean?" I question, cocking my head slightly to the side out of curiosity.

"You don't stop something like the Apocalypse without getting a few major players fired," he tells me flatly before he begins taking sips from the glass I brought him. "You know she's just an angel, right?"

"I guess I never really thought about it," I admit with a small shrug.

"So what really got you into hunting?" Dean presses and, for a minute, I can't help but wonder why he seems so interested in my motives.

"Fate," I repeat my answer, which Dean finds unsatisfying. "I don't know how else to explain it," I quickly try to elaborate. "Ever since I was eight I've just kind of known that monsters were real. I don't know why. I mean, I never even saw a ghost until I started hunting."

"So you're telling me you just picked up this life on a hunch," Dean attempts to over simplify my story.

"That's one way to put it," I say with a soft sigh.

I can't say I'm completely disappointed in my encounter with the Winchester. I can't say it's going exactly as I pictured, either. Then again, it's hard to say what I really expected from the aging hunter. I suppose it would have been foolish to think we'd chat it up over a round of pool and, by the end of the night, we'd be besties.

"Your mom know what you do?" he keeps grilling me, like he's my long lost father who was never there when I was growing up but has no problem judging my life now that I'm an adult.

"God no," I shake my head before taking a quick drink from my mug. "She thinks I'm a truck driver."

"And your dad...?"

"I don't know my stepdad all that well," I openly share. "My mom and him haven't been married all that long. He thinks what she thinks."

"I see," Dean says and, for a split second, I could swear he looks disappointed.

Another uncomfortable silence passes and I find myself thinking I should have taken Garth's advice. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered him. He's kind of a downer. I have this feeling like I'm the first person in a long time he's held a conversation with. And for some really bizarre reason, it almost feels like it's because he knows me. 

Which is crazy. Obviously we've never met before. I'd have remembered something like meeting Dean Winchester.

"Listen, Ben," he slowly begins after a few minutes of deep thought. "I know this seems like a cool gig right now. You're still young - "

"I'm twenty-five," I remind him defensively.

"... You're still young," Dean repeats firmly. "Which is all the more reason to get out now. While you still can. You wanna know why?"

I shake my head no despite the fact I know what he's going to say.

"Because," he begins, leaning back in his seat with his glass in hand. "If you do survive this awful, awful life, I'm what you have to look forward to."

"Being a legend doesn't sound so bad to me," I tell him and he lets out a harsh, sarcastic laugh.

"You know what I paid to get here?" he spits out a rhetorical question. "To become some damned legend? Everything and everyone."

I hang my head out of a quiet and respectful sorrow.

"Yeah," I tell him quietly. "I heard about what happened to Sam."

I can tell this has touched a nerve. Dean's jaw clenches, his eye narrows and, even in the dim lighting, I can tell his face has flushed in a rosy red rage. He swallows hard any harsh come back he might be thinking, as if he was going to allow me to momentarily speak of the one thing no one is ever supposed to mention in his presence.

"It's not just Sam," he tells me through clenched teeth and I know that's the extent he'll talk about his dead brother. "It's everyone. My entire family. Every friend I've ever had. Everyone I've ever... loved..."

The last part he has to choke out. Hastily he puts his glass to his lips and takes a long, hard swallow. I can tell it's not just the alcohol he's trying to swallow, but every emotion this conversation is attempting to bring out of him. Every memory. Every heartache.

"Get out while you can," he tells me with a rough, haggard voice. "Before you loose everyone, too."

Swiftly he kills his drink before slamming the empty glass on the table. With an urgency he rises from his seat and turns to walk away. And I'd let him, too, except I can't yet. Idol or not, I can't let him leave me like this. I can't let him tell me what to do.

"With all due respect," I call after him. "You don't know me. I'm not going to give this up. Not for some jaded old hunter I just met."

This causes Dean to pause, but he keeps his back to me.

"You live this long, you'll be jaded too," he tells me.

"Maybe," I reply with a shrug. "Maybe not. I won't know until I get there and I'll be damned if I don't at least try. I already know these monsters and spirits are out there. I know how to kill them and, at the risk of sounding egotistical, I'm not half bad at it. What kind of hunter... what kind of person would I be if I just walked away?"

"Your mom..." Dean begins.

"If my mom knew what I actually do," I cut him off. "That I save lives, she would be proud of me. Yeah, she'd worry about me, but if she found out I quit just to protect her, she'd be furious. She would be disappointed in me for wanting to save just her life instead of the lives of hundreds of other people."

Dean says nothing. Not at first. He hangs his head, his back still turned as he silently debates my words.

"In that case," he speaks at last, slowly turning to give me one last sorrowful, guilt laced look. "You stay safe out there. Don't let me outlive you, too."

He leaves me with that, exiting the tavern with his shoulders hunched and his head hung low. Garth wishes him a good evening, but he doesn't look up or turn around. Instead he shoves his hands inside his leather coat pockets and walks out into the cool, wet night.

"Well?" Garth asks as I slowly make my way back to the bar. "How'd it go? Musta been okay, I haven't seen Dean tolerate anyone's company for that long."

"No," I say with a deflated shake of my head. "You were right. I should have just left him alone."

"Kinda warped your perception on your hero, huh?" Garth lays out a highly accurate guess, to which I respond with a small, saddened shrug. "Idols are often not what they seem. Anyway, Dean's seen a lot and lost a lot. Whatever mood he was in, it wasn't your fault."

It's one of those speeches where you hear the words, but they don't really mean anything. Not that I disbelieve him. I know Dean's attitude had nothing to do with me. It was just a little - or a lot - disheartening to meet my hero, the Great Dean Winchester, and have him tell me to get out of the life. It's probably my fault though, the disappointment I feel. I probably shouldn't have expected a warm welcome and helpful tips on how to be the next big hunter hero.

I wallow at the bar for a couple more hours where I half listen to Garth talk about this and that while I quietly sip ale. I get a good buzz going, and then I wish the werewolf a good night. On my way to my room I think about my encounter with Dean, the middle aged hunter with an eyepatch and an alcohol problem. About how he told me I should stop now, to save myself, like he was my dad or something. And, for some really weird reason, I feel guiltily. Ashamed. Like he was my dad and I had let him down. Like in the movies, when the kid picks art or music when their father wanted them to be a doctor or an engineer. I feel like that kid.

Maybe it's because, for some really strange reason, it almost feels like Dean really is my dad. I guess he was the only one I had to look up to in this life, even though I had never met him. Until tonight, anyway.

"Stupid reality," I grumble to myself as I open my room door and flick the lights on.

And then I see it. It's laying on the clean white pillow, waiting for me. There's no note, but I know it's for me and I know who it's from.

A bone hilted knife with Enochian looking engravings etched onto the blade's otherwise smooth surface. I've never seen this weapon before, but I've heard all about it. The demon blade, one of the very few weapons in existence capable of killing most demons. And I know that it belongs to Dean.

Or, rather, it did. It seems that it now belongs to me. I glance around the small room, looking for signs the hunter is still here. But he's long gone.

I study my new knife as every ounce of disappointment melts away. I doubt Dean's changed his mind. I know he still wishes I would turn tail and run. But he's accepted my decision, my life. And, with this simple but amazing gift, he's shown me the support I was hoping he'd give me all along.

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?


	2. Ghost, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben embarks on his first hunt with his idol, Dean.

_Shelbyville, Kentucky_

The first time I met Dean Winchester, he was surly. Tired, worn, and easily annoyed. The first time I met my idol, he told me to get out of the life. To lay my guns and knives down, walk away and do something that wouldn't endanger my mom or me.

So imagine my delight and surprise when I spy him sitting on an early 2000 model Harley, sipping whiskey from a silver flask just outside a pre-Civil War era mansion. Not that seeing another hunter at a house with a potential ghost problem is abnormal. Except that Dean Winchester is kind of like a ghost himself. A seldom seen, seldom heard legend that leaves his mark in blood before vanishing.

Also, he appears to be waiting for some one. The way he watches me as I slowly amble in his direction, the some one he appears to be waiting for is me.

Me. Ben Braden. A nobody young gun with dreams and aspirations to be just like my idol, Dean Winchester, despite the bitter old man he's become and his stern disapproval of my lifestyle choice.

I cautiously eye the aging hunter as I close in on him, studying his demeanor and appearance under the late afternoon light. On the outside, he looks the same as he did when I first met him a few months back. His face looks weathered and rugged beneath a thick five o'clock shadow, matching the old leather jacket he wears despite the warm 60-something degree weather. Streaks of white wisp through his otherwise brunette hair just above his ears as wrinkles gently begin to settle themselves across his brow. A black patch conceals the place his left eye used to be and covers a small portion of the three deep scars that run parallel in a diagonal direction from his brow to his cheek bone.

The way he looks at me with his green eye, however, is not at all the same. This time he looks on with a vague twinkle of excitement.

"Took you long enough," he greets me once I've awkwardly approached the man and I can't help the confused crease my brows form at his statement.

"How did you..." I begin before I trail off in realization.

Flash back three days ago to Bellevue, Washington where I had just wrapped up a vampire case. A text message from an unknown and unidentifiable number came through that read this and only this;

38 12 44 85 13 33

It took me about five minuets to figure out it was a coordinate. The coordinate led me to web pages dedicated to the modest city of Shelbyville, which led me to the state of Kentucky when I discovered a slew of strange, ghosty sounding murders had taken place at a local Bed and Breakfast.

Honestly, I didn't question who had sent me the text. I figured it had been Garth or maybe some hunter on the lamb who wasn't allowed back in the particular state. Never in my wildest dreams did I think the message came from Dean "Get Out While You Can" Winchester.

"You sent me that text?" I vocalize my realization in the form of a question as Dean takes another swallow from his flask.

"You sound surprised," he comments and I can smell the whiskey on his words.

"No... well, yeah," I slowly admit. "I guess I thought the last time was kind of one of those once in a lifetime kind of deals." I pause before I awkwardly add, "Plus, you kind of told me I shouldn't be a hunter, so..."

"Yeah," he admits as he absently caps his container. "I also recall giving you one hell of a weapon when you refused to quit."

The demon blade. He didn't give it to me directly, but I knew it was meant for me when I found it in my room after our brief encounter. After all, I was the only one in that tavern he spoke a single word to.

"Come on," he climbs off his bike as he tucks his flask safely away in one of the inner pockets of his old jacket. "I reserved a room for you."

"So, this is happening?" I blink in disbelief, unable to move from my spot. "You're asking me to go hunting with you?"

"Sure," he shrugs as he slowly begins his ascent up the elegant stairway towards the front doors. "Why not? You seem like a capable young man."

Seriously? This is real life? The Dean Winchester wants to go hunting with me? I'm half tempted to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming, but I don't. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up just yet.

"You comin'?" Dean calls to me from the top of the staircase.

I give him a short nod as I scurry to catch up with him.

"This is a huge honor for me," I practically gush as we make our way toward the heavy oak doors. "Really. I just have one question."

"I'm sure you do," Dean mutters, not looking at me as he reaches for the brass handle.

"Do you really need help with a ghost?" I can't help but wonder.

"No," he easily admits, pushing open the large door. "I just thought you might like to go hunting with your idol or whatever it is you think I am. This was the first case I came up with. Now get in there or I'll do the damn thing myself."

"Yes sir!" I respond with a short salute as I scurry past him.

"Don't call me that," he grumbles.

xXxXx

There's a chance I'm too excited for this. It's like if Tony Stark came up to you and said "hey, we want you to join the Avengers". Or if Luke Skywalker swung by to tell you that you've got jedi powers and he needs you to help him save the universe.

I'm also incredibly nervous. This is my chance to prove to Dean, my idol, the man I've looked up to from afar, that I know what I'm doing. That I belong in this life. Which is really nerve-wracking when your idol is only the most legendary living hunter on the planet. It would be like a concert pianist playing in front of Mozart, or a student of astronomy presenting their thesis to Neil Degrasse Tyson.

I kind of lied when I told Dean I only had one question for him. I actually have about a dozen and a half questions, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. But as fate would have it, I'm not the only one with questions.

"Where are we starting?" he asks me once we've both settled into our lavish, too-nice-for-dirty-smelly-hunters-like-us rooms. He asks me this just after he's let himself into my room and finds me sitting on a queen sized bed with an open laptop.

"Um," I fumble with my response, temporarily confused as to why he of all people is asking me where to start. Maybe he's testing me, which is a thought that drives both my determination and my nerves up a few notches. "I was thinking we'd start here in the hotel. It's where all the murders have happened, right?"

"Okay," Dean nods as he draws his flask out from his back pocket. As he slowly screws the cap away from the lip, he asks "What's our angle? Feds? Reporters?"

"Curious bystanders?" I lay my response out in the form of a question and again Dean nods before taking a short drink.

"Because?" he presses me for my reasoning and now I know he's testing me.

"Anyone here knows more about what's going on than the cops do," I nervously begin. "If we're looking at a pissed off spirit, some one here has to have seen or heard something. The kind of something you don't want to tell cops or reporters."

Dean nods a third time. He takes another drink before pocketing his metal container.

"What do we know so far?" he asks, not revealing whether or not he finds my answers adequate.

"All three vics were bludgeoned to death," I report, my eyes between my hero and my computer screen. "Doors and windows were locked, no sign of forced entry or struggle." I pause to drag a second window into view. "According to their web site, this place was built in 1806. The surrounding acres were used to grow tobacco until around 1956. It's been a Bed and Breakfast ever since."

"Any deaths?" Dean wants to know and I shrug as my fingers quickly stroke the keyboard.

"Not that this web site would admit to," I say.

Once again, Dean just nods. The look on his face seems calm, but masked. Whatever he's thinking, he's not letting me know. I'm fairly confident in my hunting abilities, but I can't tell if I'm doing things right in his eyes or not.

 

The attractive young blonde at the front desk isn't completely unhelpful. As a member of the family owned business, she's been around long enough to know there's definitely a ghost or two milling around. Whether she knows it or not, her comment about the violent activity starting around the time they renovated the whole place was extremely helpful.

"What's that sound like to you?" Dean quizzes me as I drive us into town when we decide a trip to the record's hall is in order.

"Sounds like a Casper or two," I begin. "And one really pissed off ghost that's been asleep for a while."

Dean nods and takes a sip from his flask.

 

Digging through two centuries worth of records help, but not by much. The old house has experienced five deaths since its construction, none of which indicate a violent murder. Not on paper, anyway. And we can't find anything that would give reason for this sort of malevolence, either.

"What now?" Dean wants to know what I would do next.

"Check the place out after dark," I respond. "See if something comes out to play... or maim."

Dean nods.

So far, I think I'm passing his test, but I still can't tell. Each time I supply him with an answer, he just nods. And the questions aren't even close to coming to an end.

"What's your arsenal look like?" he wants to know as twilight ascends and we've reached our haunted lodgings.

I open the secret compartment I keep under the flatbed of my pickup and let Dean rummage through my somewhat organized stash of guns and knives, jars and jugs.

"Every hunter essential," I proudly show him my collection which he picks through with a thoughtful expression on his face, silently inventorying my stash. He picks up a long machete to test its edge. He replaces the blade with a sawed off shotgun and checks the rounds. He hands this to me before studying a polished silver handgun. His studious face turns into mild amusement when his hands find my water pistols and Super Soakers I keep in case of demons.

Carefully, in the rapidly waning light of the day, Dean inspects my entire arsenal before he helps himself to my backup sawed off shot gun and pockets a box of ready salt rounds.

"Not that I'm against sharing," I begin, watching as Dean takes out his flask. "But don't you have your own shotgun?"

Dean smiles at this before taking a long drink.

"You got a duffel?" he doesn't bother answering my question. "We don't want to freak out any of the living."

From my private, hidden stash of weaponry I pull out a medium sized black duffel bag and hand it to Dean.

"Great," he takes this from me with his left hand as he extends his flask towards me with his right. "You want a sip?"

"Sure," I shrug and accept the offering. It's not until I've tilted the object upside down that I realize Dean has polished it off.

"It's empty," I inform him, passing it back.

"I know," he nods, loading our weapons into the bag. "That was a test. Like I'm gonna let you drink before a hunt."

"But you've been drinking all day," I point out before I can think better of it.

"Yeah," he doesn't attempt denial as he turns and heads towards the house. "But I'm a professional."

"A professional drinker?" I mumble quietly before following him.

To be perfectly honest, this hunt is actually going better than expected. Rather, better than I could have realistically expected. In the fantasy part of my mind, Dean told me everything I was doing was great, just perfect. That I was a natural and he'd be honored to take me on as his next partner. The realist side of my brain told me he was going to bark orders, tell me I was doing it all wrong and then, before we could reach the gory parts of the hunt, he'd send me on my way while bitterly grumbling he should have just taken care of it on his own and that I should reconsider ditching the life.

I'm totally cool with middle ground here.


	3. Ghost, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben & Dean hunt a homicidal spirit.

We hang around in my room for a couple of hours, quietly watching bad television while we wait for the other guests to hit the hay before we realize there are no other guests. That is, before _I_ realize we're the only occupants. If Dean had noticed, he'd kept this small detail to himself.

"I can't help but feel like you're testing me," I confess to him as we carefully stalk the abandoned corridors of the large house with our sawed off, salt loaded shotguns and EMF detectors.

To this, Dean has no reaction. No head nod, no facial expression. Nothing that would indicate he had even heard me. He keeps his eye between the battered gadget in his hand and the seemingly empty hallway.

"This place kind of reminds me of a case I did a couple years back," I say, eyeing him for a reaction. Any reaction. "Down in Georgia. It was this old cotton plantation turned museum." I pause to see if Dean's listening and, while I'm sure he can hear me, he gives no indication that he has. "Can't say I'm fond of the museum spirits. I mean, I got the job done, but they're tricky hauntings. There's usually at least a hand full of spirits hanging around and you gotta figure out who's attached to what and what ghost needs a good old salt 'n burn."

Still nothing. Dean pokes his head through open doors and dark corners, but he doesn't respond.

"So... how 'bout them Lions?" I try.

Dean groans as he rolls his green eye at me.

"Are you always this noisy on a hunt?" he asks with a mild impatience in his breath.

"Depends on what I'm hunting," I give him an honest answer and a short shrug. "It's not like murder happy ghosts are all that put off by noise, you know."

"Just make sure you're keeping your eyes peeled," he instructs me with a short grunt.

"First case I ever did was a ghost," I tell him. Never mind the fact I finally have an opportunity to be asking him the questions. I've suddenly gotten a little shy about it. Instead I babble on about myself because, honestly, I have to babble about something. It soothes the nerves.

"It was in Grand Rapids, Michigan," I ramble on. "Not too far from home. I'd picked up a few tricks from this really silly old web site where two goof balls tried to teach ghost hunting tricks. They called themselves the Ghostfacers."

I can hear Dean choke on his own spit at this and I can't tell if the sound that emits from his throat is a laugh or a groan.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, stifling a laugh as he looks at me. "You were serious when you said you got into this whole crap shoot of a life, weren't you? You just plunged in on a hunch?"

"Yeah," I nod to confirm this.

"You're telling me you seriously just believed in all this crap," Dean goes on in an annoyed disbelief, temporarily halting in our wanderings. "Ghosts, demons, monsters. You believed these things all existed with no reason?"

"Yeah, I know," I shake my head. "I gotta come up with a cooler origin story."

"You seriously never saw a ghost?" Dean keeps pressing me. "Or, I don't know, got kidnapped by demons? Or changelings?"

"Nope," I shake my head again but shudder slightly at the word "changeling".

"You never ever met another hunter?" he presses and, once more, I shake my head. For a minuet he studies me and, once he determines my sincerity to be genuine, he shakes his own head and slowly returns to strolling the hall. "You must be crazier than the rest of us, voluntarily gettin' yourself into a life like this on a hunch."

"Maybe I am," I say with a small smile. I pause, working up the courage to begin my own round of questions. "What about you?" I begin with a nervous breath. "Is it true what they say about you, how you got into this life? With you mom...?"

"We're not going to talk about that," he speaks shortly before swiftly turning away from me. "Why don't you scout the third floor. We'll cover more ground if we split up."

The words have barely left his lips when both of our EMF detectors go berserk and our breath clings to the suddenly icy air. We exchange a knowing glance before readying our weapons. Without direction, I turn my back to Dean to cover us on the south side of the hall while the older hunter keeps his eye on the north.

A few minutes pass like hours as Dean and I each keep watch for an apparition to take form. I can hear my heart rate spike as we wait, my finger slowly reaching for the trigger. Dean grumbles in annoyance at the high pitched whine the detectors give off before he switches his off.

At last a ghost appears in the form of a young female, dressed in Victorian style clothing. She materializes six, maybe six and a half feet from me.

"Dean," I speak in a whisper. "Dean, turn around."

The older hunter whirls on his heels. His every reflex and instinct tell him to take aim and fire, just as the muscles in my finger scream and twitch for me to take my shot. Blast this bitch into temporary oblivion. But I can't. The way she looks at me, she's not pissed off. Her sad, gray eyes tell me she's not the vengeful spirit behind the bludgeonings.

"Dean, wait!" I hiss, throwing my right hand up to lower the barrel of his gun.

"What?" he asks. "Why?"

"She's a Casper," I tell him, my eyes fashioned on the ghost girl before us. "She's not the one we're after."

"What?" Dean seems confused by my statement. "How do you know?"

"She's not attacking us," I point out. "And she didn't try to sneak up on us."

At first, Dean seems hesitant. He stares between me and the girl with his gun aimed, his finger on the trigger. After some careful consideration, he realizes that I'm right, and he slowly lowers his weapon.

"What's your name?" I gently ask the spirit who continues to stare. "I'm Ben. That's Dean. We're trying to find the spirit killing all these people. Do you know who it is?"

The ghost says nothing, but slowly and timidly nods.

"Can you tell us?" I ask in a calm, hopeful tone.

The spirit girl thinks about it for a moment before nodding again. Without a spoken word, she silently beckons for us to follow her. Dean and I exchange a short glance and a "what have we got to loose?" shoulder shrug before cautiously following her.

Silently, we follow the spirit down the long corridor, keeping our distance as we make quiet steps. We each hold our guns low but ready and Dean's eye wanders between our guide and our surroundings. It's at the top of the grand, winding staircase the ghost pauses. She waits for us to catch up to her and, once she finds that we're close enough, she points down at something on the main floor. Both Dean and I follow her finger, our eyes landing on the young woman who runs the front desk. She's doing the night audit. And she's not alone.

Directly behind the woman - Abby, I think her name is - stands a really pissed off looking ghost of a woman who wears a 1950's style dress and a wicked smile. Her sunken eyes are focused on the young blonde before her, as her arms slowly rise to expose a croquet mallet clutched tightly in her ghost fists.

"Abby!" I call out to the blissfully unaware desk attendant.

Looking up, Abby's look of concentration melts rapidly into fear when she spies Dean and I standing at the top of the stair case wielding sawed off shotguns which are, seemingly, aimed directly at her.

"Behind you!" I shout before she can scream.

Reluctantly, Abby turns. The bloodcurdling scream she emits pierces my ears as Dean and I leap and bound down the staircase. The smile the evil spirit wears grows wider as her mallet begins to descend. We're not gonna make it.

"Duck!" Dean yells, something he doesn't have to tell Abby twice. The young blonde sinks to the ground, disappearing behind her desk not even a full second before Dean fires off a round of rock salt. The ghost vaporizes as I run to check on a more than startled Abby.

"Are you okay?" I ask the visibly shaken woman whose eyes stare wide at the spot the ghost used to be.

"I... I... I..." she stammers, slowly accepting my hand for support. "What the... what the hell was that!?"

"That was a ghost," Dean doesn't bother to sugar coat it for her as he replenishes his gun with another round.

"Seriously?" Abby asks with a terrified disbelief as I pull her to her feet.

"Unfortunately," I confirm.

"I mean, I've heard them," she goes on, still staring. "But I've never seen... was she about to bash my head in with a croquet mallet?"

"Looks that way," Dean nods. "You wouldn't happen to know who that was, would you?"

"N-no," Abby shakes her head, her gaze turning from Dean to me. "Not personally, I mean. But she..." She pauses to let out a short laugh. "She kind of looked like my great aunt."

"Did your aunt happen to die here?" Dean hastily interrogates her while his eye sweeps the room.

"No," Abby shakes her head again. "I mean, I don't know. I've only seen pictures of her. She went missing in the 50's before my grandparents bought the place from her husband."

"Just before it turned into a Bed and Breakfast," I say and Abby nods.

"My grandpa used to tell me it'd been my great aunt's dream to open a Bed and Breakfast," Abby absently elaborates, chattering away her nerves. "But her husband didn't like the thought of giving up the tobacco operation. She got the house all changed and ready to open for guests right before she went missing."

"I hate to break it to you, Abby," I gently say. "But I don't think your great aunt ever left."

"Did you see the side of her head?" Dean asks and both Abby and I shake our head. "Looks like it got smashed in. I'm guessing with a croquet mallet."

"That's weird you say that," Abby says. "There's an antique set in the shed out back. It's been missing one mallet since, well, forever I guess."

Dean and I exchange a knowing glance.

"You know of anywhere around here a body might be buried?" Dean asks, a question that makes Abby somewhat sick just thinking about.

"What?" she questions with a note of disgust. "No!"

"Listen," I try to coax her anxieties down. "I know this all seems really weird, but we're here to help. But we can't do that if we can't find the body and you're the only one here who knows the property."

Abby looks between Dean and myself with a raised brow, attempting to determine just how sincere we're being.

"Why... why?" she asks at last and Dean impatiently rolls his eye.

"We have to salt and burn the remains," I tell her.

"Ew," Abby wrinkles her nose. "Why?"

"Just trust us, huh?" Dean grumbles. "You wanna help us out or should we leave and let your great aunt break your brains?"

The young blonde timidly bites her bottom lip as she looks between us, racking her brain for a possible burial site.

"Out back," she says at last. "Behind the shed. There's an old bench that nobody likes sitting on."

"Why?" Dean skeptically questions.

"It's really uncomfortable," Abby tries to explain. "Not physically. It just gives everyone a creepy vibe. And it's always freezing, even on the hottest day."

"Works for me," Dean nods, motioning for us to follow him.

"What, me too?" Abby reluctantly asks, not particularly enthusiastic about watching a couple of strangers digging up bones.

"You live here, right?" I ask and she nods. "You better stick with us then."

Begrudgingly Abby follows Dean and I into the night. We retrieve a shovel from my pick-up and Abby supplies us with an extra one from the shed. We move the bench and Dean and I take turns between digging and keeping watch for Abby's great aunt.

"Who are you guys, anyway?" Abby begins asking the standard questions most witnesses of the paranormal have.

"People who know about this kind of thing," I say with a shrug, cradling my shotgun as Dean heaves piles of dirt out of the steadily growing hole.

"What, you and your dad just drive around looking for pissed off ghosts?" she wonders out loud.

"More or less," I nod with a half smile. "He's not my dad."

"Damn," she mutters. "And I thought my job sucked."

"Yahtzee," Dean speaks, gently removing dirt now. Abby and I turn our gaze downwards and spy the set of bones the older hunter has managed to unearth. Once he's removed enough dirt, Dean climbs out and throws his shovel down.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I instruct Abby. "Sometimes ghosts know they're about to get busted."

Abby nods and timidly accepts my extra shotgun, her eyes scanning the property under the light of a crescent moon. Dean douses the dry bones in salt and gasoline before striking a match. Which is, of course, when great auntie decides to show up.

"G-guys!" Abby stammers. She fires off a round of salt but misses. Before I can come to the young woman's rescue, Dean drops the match and we watch the ghost wither in screaming pain as it burns and fades away.

"Is... is she gone?" Abby stammers, her eyes franticly searching the vast yard.

"Yep," Dean nods.

"I don't know if I should thank you or throw up," Abby admits, relinquishing the shotgun. "I'm totally looking for a new place to live tomorrow."

xXxXxXx

Dean and I take a four hour nap and rise just after the sun. We pack our belongings, check out and head into the bright, morning sun with a sense of accomplishment. We saved a life and killed a ghost, which means we did a job well done.

In all honesty, despite last night's accomplishments, I'm a little disappointed. Not because Dean was too quiet or because I feel like I failed any of his tests. We met up and knocked out a case in less than 24 hours. I should feel proud about that, but, to me, that's too short of a time to spend hunting with my idol. I would have loved to hang out with him for a few more days. You know, really get to know the bitter old bastard.

"Well, that was kind of awesome," I tell him as he straps his pack to the back of his bike.

As short of a hunt as it was, I'm not lying. It really was awesome to hunt with him.

"Yeah," he says, not looking up at me as he speaks with a note of sarcasm. "Hunting ghosts is definitely awesome."

"I meant the team up," I clarify. "It was an honor hunting with you."

Dean straightens up and looks at me but says nothing.

"Did I pass your test?" I ask and he gives this some thought.

"The aim on your shotgun," he speaks. "It's a little off."

Dean falls silent and I realize that's all I'm going to get out of him. No "great job, kid" or even a "you did alright". Just a mild criticism on my weaponry.

"So, uh," I go on awkwardly, not in any particular hurry to depart his company, despite his grumpy demeanor. "Where you headed?"

"Millville, New Jersey," he responds, climbing onto his Harley. "Caught wind of what looks like another vengeful spirit case." He pauses, kicking back the kick stand before looking up at me. "You wanna follow me or should I follow you?"

For a minute, all I can do is blinkingly stare with a look of awe.

"Are you... seriously?" I stammer out.

"As long as you quit looking at me like that, yes," Dean nods.

"I would... that would be... holy shit," I babble and I know the grin I've got spread across my face just looks ridiculous. "I mean," I attempt to calm my ever growing excitement and maintain a straight face. "I'll follow you."

"Good," Dean nods as he starts his bike. "Don't follow too close."

My thoughts completely scatter into dream land as I climb into my beat up old truck with a giddy bounce. This is really happening. I'm going hunting with Dean Winchester. Again.

I think this means I passed his test.


	4. Revenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Dean track down a revenant.

_Millville, New Jersey_

My fingers fiddle with the radio dial on the dash of my '88 Ford pick up, flashing between static, terrible pop, country, and more static. An old pop song comes on from my high school days and I cringe as a female singer croons something about the "eye of the tiger".

"I can't believe she got away with those lyrics," I mutter to myself. "Everyone knows Survivor owns that shit. That's, like, rock and roll blasphemy."

The dial finds more static and rolls past a hip hop tune before it finds classic rock. Santana reaches my ears in the form of _Oye Como Va_ and I bob my head as my fingers reach for the volume knob and crank it up a few notches. More than satisfied with the tunes, I return my focus to the dark lot before me, casually sipping cola from a big red plastic cup.

So far this case is kind of similar to the last one. That is, to say, the way we're doing things is similar. Apparently Dean wasn't completely satisfied with the last test he gave me and we've been doing everything according to what I would do. Dean asks me what we're doing, where we're going, and every time I supply him with an answer, he nods his head and takes a swig from the silver flask that never seems to run empty until he offers me a sip.

The actual case itself is a lot different than the last one. First of all, it's taking us longer to crack the case open. We've been in the state for three days now. Second, our vengeful spirit turned out to be a pissed off revenant. It was the discovery of the undead that lead us here.

"Here" being the closest funeral parlor. I'm the watchman and the getaway driver. My post is my idling piece of crap truck sitting in the back lot as I keep a lookout for cops. Dean, he's inside the parlor, attempting to lift a coffin. The revenant we're dealing with was smart enough to destroy his own casket, which means he's not going to be an easy one to take down.

I'm personally excited I finally get to see some action and really show off my skills.

An unexpected and sudden "bang!" emits from the flatbed behind me and I almost spill my soda. Dean pulls the passenger door open and quickly slides inside only seconds later.

"I don't know what's louder," he grumbles as he gets in. "Your truck or your music."

"Sorry," I apologize, glancing back to find a maple wood casket laying in the flatbed. "It's the muffler."

"From the sounds of it, the muffler is the least of your worries," Dean says, shifting his eye about the empty lot. "Lets just get out of here before anyone notices."

I do as I'm instructed and slowly pull away from the funeral parlor and into traffic.

"How are we going to lure this thing in there, anyway?" I question.

"I don't know," Dean shrugs as he digs his flask out from his inner jacket pocket. "This was your idea. You got wooden stakes, right?"

"Yeah," I nod. "A couple."

Dean just nods before taking a long, hard drink from his flask. Most of the ride back to our motel is made in silence, save for the songs of classic rock gods that serenade us through fuzzy speakers. It's when we've come within a half mile of our destination I finally work up the courage to ask him a question, the one that's really been nagging me since we hit New Jersey.

"So, New Jersey," I pretend to make casual conversation. "You, uh, you do a lot of hunting out here?"

"If it's about my eye," Dean knows exactly what I'm trying to ask. "Yes, I lost it in New Jersey."

"So, you really took down the Jersey Devil?" I ask with an air of awe in my voice. Dean lets out a short, soft snort before taking another quick sip of whiskey.

"I hate to break it to you," he begins as he twists the cap back onto his flask and carefully tucks it away. "But there's no such thing as the Jersey Devil."

"Oh," I say with a breath of disappointment. "What, um, what was it?"

"A griffin," he tells me, his eyes focused on the road before us as he speaks. My jaw drops.

"No way," is all I can say.

"Way," he returns with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You tackled a griffin by yourself?" I ask in disbelief, unable to hide the excitement in my tone as I visualize Dean, the mortal warrior, going head to head with the Greek beast of ancient myth. "That's badass!"

"Yeah," Dean rolls his remaining eye, laying the sarcasm on thick this time. "Looking like a pirate is totally badass."

"I was going to say you look more like Nick Furry," I tell him as I pull into our motel parking lot. He grunts but says nothing.

We climb out of my truck and I've made it as far as my room door when Dean loudly clears his throat. I snap my gaze up at him and notice he's still standing beside my truck.

"You're just gonna leave a coffin sitting out in the open then?" he questions. I can feel my cheeks grow mildly warm and I know they're flushing from embarrassment.

"Right," I mutter as I hurry past him and scramble into my flatbed to pull a blue tarp over our stolen casket. It was bound to happen, me screwing up in Dean's presence. I just hope this is the only thing I screw up. I'd hate to be the cause of Dean loosing a limb or an organ to go along with his missing eye. Or, you know, getting my own intestines ripped out. I guess that would be pretty bad too.

\- - - - -

Revenants are a lot more rare than angry spirits. They're even more rare than demons, which is a fact I find both comforting and chilling. I've personally never dealt with one and, because of this, I don't really know a lot about them. Dean lets me know he knows this when he hands me two old, leather bound journals and says, "you kill a revenant with silver stakes, not wood" and tells me to study up. I spend a good part of the evening going between the journals of John Winchester and Robert Singer, the internet, and slow texts with Garth while Dean silently sips cheap beer and watches reruns of shows that aired before I was even born.

"My brain is going to explode," I speak up somewhere close to 3 am, running a hand down my face in exhaustion.

"That's a good sign," Dean says, muting the TV and turning his attention to me. "What have we learned?"

"According to the internet," I slowly begin, furiously blinking in an attempt to wet my otherwise severely dry eyeballs. "To kill a revenant, you have to cut out its heart. Or burn it. According to the journals and Garth, you have to nail it into a coffin with a silver stake. Personally, I trust three veteran hunters over Wikipedia, but that's just because I'm smart."

Dean gives me a small, short smile.

"What else?" he presses.

"Revenants only come out at night," I go on, stretching my arms as I stifle a yawn. "Most vampire lore comes from revenants, like the whole allergy to sunlight. They terrorize the living, usually surviving family and friends, and to become a revenant, the reanimated corpse had to have been a pretty big bag of dicks when they were alive."

Dean nods, slowly rising from his seat on the foot of the bed. He polishes off his beer and lets loose a short belch.

"Alright," he says, satisfied with what I've learned about the rare form of undead. "Let's go."

"What?" I stare at him through tired eyes. "Right now?"

"Yeah," Dean says, the expression on his face indicating this should be obvious. "We've only got a few more hours till sunup. You wanna stick around Jersey for another day or you wanna go kill a revenant?"

"Kill a revenant, I guess," I reply, slowly rising from my spot at the motel desk. I close my computer and attempt to cover a yawn before grabbing my army green jacket from the back of the chair.

"Any ideas on how we're going to lure it into the casket?" I ask, throwing my jacket around my shoulders.

"I don't know," he shrugs as he opens the door. "Whattcha got?"

"Um..." I stare blankly at the aging hunter who gives me an expectant, I'm waiting look. "I, uh, I haven't come up with anything."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he tells me with a mild air of confidence. "You're driving."

\- - - - -

Note to self: next time someone tells you to go find a revenant, figure out where said revenant might hang out before you spend 20 minuets aimlessly driving around an unfamiliar city lost between thoughts on how to shove the vampire cousin into a casket and nervously blathering on about how, this one time, near an abandoned band camp, you raided this nest with your hunter friend Netta but it turned out to be a Twilight cosplay thing and holy crap you should have seen all the glitter.

That's a true story, by the way.

But not a good time to share it.

"Great story," Dean tells me, his eye on the darkened streets that stretch out before us. "Really. Quick question thought; where are we?"

My foot swiftly finds the brake and it suddenly occurs to me that I have absolutely no clue where we are or where we're going.

"Damn it," I mutter, mortified by my second mistake of the night. Hesitantly I glance over at Dean who calmly pulls a crumpled piece of computer paper out of his jeans pocket. He unfolds it before he passes it to me. Map Quest directions.

He silently waits for me to figure out where we are and where the revenant sightings have been. It doesn't take me long to discover I've taken us to the wrong side of the city.

"You could have told me," I grumble as I slowly make a u-turn.

"I just did," Dean points out and I roll my eyes.

For a while we ride in silence as I steer my truck in the right direction, glancing between the black and white map in my lap and street signs. There are still so many things I want to ask him, yet I'm still hesitant. At first it was because I didn't want to seem like a fanboy, but now I can't tell if it's because he doesn't seem interested in sharing or if I suddenly find myself clinging to the legends as they are.

"Can I ask you a question?" I finally break the quietude, deciding I really do want to know the truth.

"Why not?" Dean returns as he digs out his flask.

"Your angel friend, Castiel," I begin. "Is he still around?"

I've never met an angel before and the prospect is intriguing to me.

"If I was hanging out with angels, do you think I'd be walking around looking like Nick Furry?" Dean responds to my question with another question. He makes a valid point, one I didn't really consider. I silently nod and watch him take a long sip from his flask.

"What happened to him?" I have to know. Dean remains silent for a moment, leaving me guessing whether or not he's going to reply.

"What eventually happens to everyone," he reveals at last. "Park right here. You got binoculars?"

I motion to my glove box as I ease my piece of crap truck to a halt along the curbside and kill the engine.

"So, he's dead?" I press as Dean brings forth my cheap pair of binoculars and lifts them to his eye. I resist the urge to offer to man the viewing spectacles since I have both eyes, but I think better of it and keep my mouth shut.

"Yep," Dean distantly replies, looking out over the neighborhood for signs of our monster de jour.

"How'd he go?" I ask, something Dean doesn't respond to.

"You come up with any ideas on how we're gonna get this sucker in the coffin?" is what he says instead, signaling he's done talking about his deceased friend.

"Um..." I fumble. "I was thinking our best shot would be to incapacitate him somehow. Maybe with explosives?"

Dean jerks the binoculars away from his face as his brows crease and he gives me that "are you serious?" look.

"You want to blow up a revenant in a residential neighborhood?" he attempts to clarify my brain storm. Hearing the plan out loud does make it sound kind of ridiculous.

"Wood chipper?" I suggest and Dean rolls his eye. "No, wait, I got it," I quickly add, attempting to recover my terrible ideas. "What if we cut his head off? I know it won't kill him, but it'll stop him long enough for us to lift him in the casket and nail him down."

"That sounds a little more practical," Dean confirms as he returns his gaze to his neighborhood watch. "You got a blade handy?"

I nod as I reach for the machete I keep between the driver and passenger's seats.

"Good," Dean says, pointing down the street. "Cause we got company."

My stomach jumps into my throat as I nervously gulp. It's not tangling with the undead that makes me anxious, but the fact I can finally prove to my idol that I'm a capable (and badass) hunter.

 _Don't screw it up, Ben,_ I keep muttering to myself as I climb out of the truck and slowly make my way into the street, my machete gripped tightly in my right hand. _Do this like the pro you are._

I walk into the center of the darkened street, stopping somewhere between street lights. The revenant, who stands a half block away, stares me down. This continues for a minute or two as we each await the other to make a move and start this battle. It's the revenant who decides to come at me, making tracks at a pace somewhere between a walk and a jog. I ready myself for him, drawing my blade back with both hands as if I were holding a bat and the monster was the approaching baseball.

The revenant lets out a loud, angry hiss when he's a couple of houses away. My stomach lurches with excitement. I finally get to show Dean what I'm made of. I finally get to prove I'm in the right field...

A gunshot rings out from behind me and the revenant screams in pain as his left knee buckles. A second shot emits and the monster crumples to the asphalt in a fit of rage filled pain. My jaw drops in disbelief as I turn on a swift heel and stare at my idol, who casually holds a silver pistol in his right hand.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks me, motioning towards the downed monster with his gun. "Go chop the damn thing's head off."

"I had him!" I insist angrily in a voice a few notches above a whisper, despite the fact the gun probably gave us up.

"There's not a single monster on this planet who's dumb enough to charge himself into a fucking machete," Dean tells me as he carefully places his firearm back in the inner pocket of his jacket. "He would have had you on the ground before you could have given him so much as a scratch. Now go cut his head off before he can stand up." He pauses to take a sip from his flask. "And before the cops get here."

I grumble inaudibly to myself, beyond disappointed by my inability to show Dean how awesome I am at the job. I do as I'm told, taking the monster's head off with a clean, downward swing as I think about how I'm kind of pissed at Dean too. He could have let me duke it out with the thing, but he had to go and show me up before the revenant even came within striking range.

Dean helps me gather the remains and we manage to shove everything inside the satin lined casket and stake it down with silver in under five minuets. Thirty minuets later, we've gathered our things from the motel and we're making tracks out of town, Dean leading the way on his Harley. By the time the sun's come up, we've got the thing buried as deep as possible in a cluster of trees just beyond the highway.

Now that the sun is up and the birds are chirping happily in a bright, blue sky, I'm ready for a nap. But Dean's still got plenty of energy left.

"Why don't you follow me for a few states," he half suggests, half orders as he wipes dirt from his fingers onto his jeans.

So I do, partially because I'm too tired to argue, but also because, at the moment, I've got nothing better to be doing. Other than catching up on some shut eye.

While I tail Dean (close, but not too close, just as he instructed me), I decide I'm not too mad at him. While I would have appreciated him just telling me what I needed to know or how to cripple a revenant the easy way, I can kind of see what his goal was. He wanted me to learn the hard way, because when you learn something the hard way, it has a tendency to stick around in your brain better. I know I'm not forgetting that lesson for a while.

We travel north west for the duration of the day, stopping only for gas and coffee as needed. At long last, a good hour or so after sundown, Dean leads me to a quiet storage facility near the Ohio/Indiana boarder. At this point, I'm so tired and hungry, I don't really care what we're doing here.

That is, until Dean opens one of the lockers.

"Damn," I whistle, inviting myself into the spacious unit which is mostly empty, save for the jet black 1967 Chevy Impala in near mint condition. "That's a sweet ride."

"That it is," Dean proudly nods in agreement as he unscrews the cap on his silver flask and takes a quick sip. "Runs better than that heap you drive." He pauses to take another sip of whiskey, glancing between me and the Impala as he does so. "What do you say we retire that hunk'a junk out there?"

For a minute, I don't say anything. I blink up at Dean with wide eyes.

"You're... you're not giving me this?" I begin, somewhat uncertain as to what he's getting at.

"What?" Dean wrinkles his brows. "No. Of course not."

"Are you asking me to ride with you?" I ask, my pulse rising in an excitement I can barely contain.

"Yeah," he replies, giving me that "no duh" look as he caps his container and places back in his pocket. "You up for it?"

"Am I up for it?" I echo, attempting not to sound too much like a giddy school girl. " _Am I up for it?_ Are you freaking kidding me?"

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean mutters to himself with a small, almost undetectable smile.

Is this really happening? Is this real life? Am I seriously about to actually hit the road with the Dean Winchester?

"Does this make us official hunting partners?" I ask with a wide grin and Dean rolls his green eye at me.

"Just load up, huh?" he says. "I wanna get some grub before we hit the road again."

"Aye, aye, captain!" I say with a salute and a smile. Dean's brows fold in a complete lack of amusement.

"You say that again," he warns, "and I'll officially kick your ass."

Like that's gonna wipe the smirk off my face. Nothing short of Apocalypse 2.0 is going to be able to accomplish that for at least a week.


	5. Unlucky Charms, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Ben search for a Leprechaun whose causing trouble in Devil's Lake, North Dakota.

_Between Here & There_

"Can I ask you a question?"

Dean doesn't glance away from the road that stretches out like a river of asphalt before us, nor does he supply me with a response. It's only been a week since we ganked that revenant and became an official hunting duo (of extraordinary awesomeness), but he's already more than aware that this means I'm probably about to delve into his history in a casual attempt to decipher reality from lore. So he stopped replying to this which, more or less, signals that I'm free to ask whatever the hell I want to ask. Whether or not he answers my real question is entirely up to him. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't, which is when he pretends like he never even heard me at all. Once or twice I've gotten a "that's none of your business" in a sullen growl as he forever closes the door on the subject.

I only get that reaction when the subject is Sam. I don't know why, but he won't talk about his younger brother. Not even to fondly reminisce. I like to think he'll tell me all about it when he's ready, but the way his brows crumple and his jaw clenches when I do bring it up, I can't be sure he'll ever talk about it.

"What's with the cassette player?" I lay out a not too personal question. "You know these things went obsolete before I was even born, right?"

Dean cocks a brow at me and I can't tell if he's offended by my criticism of his choice in music format or casually surprised that my question didn't pertain to one of the zillion stories I've heard about him.

"You're not knocking Zeppelin, are you?" he questions with an air of skepticism.

"Oh, no," I vigorously shake my head. "God no. Zeppelin rules. I'm just saying Zeppelin - and all the music you've got here - sounds better on digital media." I pause as I shuffle through his unorganized box of cassette tapes. "I don't honestly think I've ever even seen a real cassette until now."

"I like my car the way it is," he informs me defensively. "You don't mess with the classics."

For a minute I debate bringing up the fact his cassette player is probably not an original piece of the Impala. But I don't, partially because I enjoy a Dean whose not pissed off at me, and I really don't know enough about cars or cassettes to be arguing about it. My thoughts are interrupted by an incoming call from my favorite ex-hunter/werewolf.

"Garth," I answer my phone with gusto as I turn down the volume on Stairway to Heaven. "What's up man?"

"Got a case for ya," he skips the formalities and casual banter, getting straight to business. "Where you at?"

"Nebraska, I think," I reply, staring out the window at the endless stretch of plain lands around us. "With Dean."

"Winchester?" Garth questions. "That's... interesting." He pauses and, even though I can't see his face, I can tell he finds my proud statement to be curious and somewhat thought provoking. "Anyway, I found somethin' kind of weird up in Devil's Lake, North Dakota. Get a pen 'cause you're gonna want to write this down."

I find a blue pen in my jean's pocket and take notes on my left palm as Garth spills the details on this strange-even-for-us case.

"Wow," I say once I've gotten all the details. "That is weird."

"Let me know what you find," Garth tells me, craving details on the hunt we have yet to embark on. "And good luck."

As I thank him and end the call, I can't help but feel he's not wishing me luck on the case but with my new hunting partner. Probably because Dean's not the warmest guy. I've already figured that one out. No way is that stopping me from taking this opportunity.

"Riddle me this," I speak as I read over the scribbled notes drawn over the calloused skin of my open palm. "What kidnaps first-born sons in a flash of blinding light that comes from the sky?"

Dean wrinkles his brows in thought.

"Oh, and also leaves what can best be described as 'crop circles'," I continue.

"First born... blinding light..." Dean repeats in a mutter. "That sounds familiar."

"Good," I say. "Because I'm personally stumped." I pause. "You don't think it's aliens, do you?"

It's a rhetorical, completely non-serious question that actually sparks Dean's whiskey soaked memory.

"Damn it," he thunders, punching his steering wheel as the realization settles. "Fuckin' fairies."

"What?" I have to ask, nearly choking on my own saliva at Dean's reaction. "Did you - did you just say fairies?"

"Yeah," Dean grumbles unenthusiastically. "Probably brought in by a leprechaun."

"Lep... leprechaun?" I stammer, not sure if Dean is being sincere or pulling my leg. The sullen, serious look on his face tells me he's far from joking. Not to mention this is Dean Winchester I'm talking to. The day Dean Winchester plays a prank on me is the day fish sprout wings.

"Yeah," Dean confirms, his eye still fixed on the road, his expression full of grave sincerity. "They're pretty much the demons of the fairy realm."

"Demons of the fairy realm," I echo with a breath of disbelief.

Is this real life? Am I seriously sitting in a '67 Impala next to Dean Winchester discussing freaking leprechauns and fairies? Or is this is a really long, extremely vivid dream?

"I thought fairies were like Big Foot or Santa Clause," I admit. "You know. Not real. And you're telling me there's an entire realm of these things?"

"Unfortunately," Dean grumbles.

"And they're in this, uh, 'realm' because...?"

"Leprechauns are kind of like crossroads demons," Dean explains. "They don't usually bother with this side of reality unless some one calls them."

"I guess that makes sense," I say though, truth be told, nothing about this conversation screams logical. Then again, I guess the same thing could be said about our job.

At least Dean seems to know all about the little bastards. That'll save me at least a half a day's worth of research.

\- - - - -

_Devil's Lake, North Dakota_

When we reach our destination, I suit up. Which is, quite suddenly, wrong.

"You want to play FBI in a case that looks like aliens?" Dean spells out what I'm trying to do with an "are you serious?" tone.

"... yes?" I reply, suddenly feeing quite embarrassed.

"No," Dean shakes his head. "We work the reporter angle on this one."

This signals Dean's done testing me, and he's done following my suit. We're now doing things his way. He is the expert, so I'll play along, although he could have found a nicer way to tell me this. A way that didn't make me feel quite so stupid.

Before we go play journalists or bloggers or what the hell ever Dean comes up with, he fills me in on what we're dealing with. As it turns out, leprechauns aren't actually tiny little men at all. In fact, there's virtually no indication that they are what they are. Not based on what the popular, modern depictions and cereal boxes would have you believe. And when they're summoned, they usually bring along some other form of fairy along for the ride. The bad news about the additional fairy crew is that no one can see them. No one, that is, except those who have actually been to the realm of the fairies. Luckily for us, Dean is one of these people (but - surprise! - he doesn't want to talk about it).

Essentially, what we're looking for is a leprechaun who doesn't look like what I've been lead to believe leprechauns look like and may actually be invisible, as well as signs of a frequent fairy visitor, indicated by bowls of cream in places you wouldn't normally see a bowl of cream. For instance, anywhere (seriously though, who just leaves out a bowl of cream? I don't even know cat owners who do that).

"We also have to track down whoever brought the damn thing here," Dean informs me. "We can track the bastard down but it won't do us much good until we find the right spell to reverse."

I'll spare you the boring details of interviewing cooperative civilians (who are all convinced aliens are behind the abductions) and the local law force (who are more skeptical than the citizens of Devil's Lake, but equally as concerned and thoroughly annoyed by the amount of "paranormal investigators" the strange incidents have attracted0. The parents of the missing - five in total so far - are willing to cooperate with our "interview", but only when we told them we were paranormal debunkers and promised our article would urge people to give up the extra terrestrial nonsense and help the desperate parents find their kids. The parents of the first missing kid even offered a five figure reward for the return of their oldest son, and they looked like they could afford it.

"Somethin' seem off about that first couple we interviewed?" Dean asks me when we take a trip to the local library to dig through back issues of every local paper published in the last three months.

I hadn't really thought about it at the time, but now that Dean mentions it, I suppose their concern seemed somewhat lacking. Like the reward they offered was a front to disguise the fact they knew exactly where their son had gone, because they had sent him there.

"Hey, Dean," this prompts a curious question to pop into my head. I've been so consumed by tracking a damn leprechaun before it can take anyone else, I never stopped to think about the people he's already taken. "Is there a way to get those people back? From the fairy realm?"

"I don't think so," Dean shakes his head, barely taking his eye off the stack of newspapers in front of him.

"What happens to them over there?" I press, but Dean won't answer this question.

"Yahtzee," he says instead, holding up the front page from a paper printed nearly two and a half months ago. "You recognize any of these people?"

I take the paper from his hands to study. The large, colorful photograph displays a grinning couple holding one of those novelty, oversized checks with an obscene amount of zeros behind a lonely five. Bold black letters pronounce the lucky couple the sole winners of the largest jackpot in the history of North Dakota's lottery. Incidentally, the proud, sudden millionaires are the parents of the first missing kid.

"How about them?" Dean slides me another newspaper, whose headline declares the owners of local bee keepers and honey makers - aka, mom and dad to missing kid number two - winners in a landmark lawsuit against a major corporation famous for manufacturing pesticides and funding several political campaigns. This particular paper was printed only three days after their friends took home a pot of gold.

"Or her?" Dean slides me yet another paper, printed only days after the landmark lawsuit. On this paper, the headline excitedly announces a local bakery had been declared number one in the United States by Good Morning America. The woman who proudly smiles in this picture is, not surprisingly, the mother of missing kid number three.

"Check this out," I line up the papers on the long table, pointing to a small object that reoccurs in all three photographs. "The pendant on lotto mommy's neck, it's the same symbol as bee keeper daddy's ring."

"And the bakery lady's pin," Dean sees the pattern, studying the Celtic symbol with great interest.

"How much you wanna bet that's some kind of lucky charm?" I say.

"I'd be willing to put up a jack pot, a bee farm and a bakery those are lucky charms," Dean agrees with the theory and I grin. "Part of the leprechaun's deal, I'm guessing."

"You know what that means?" I say, wiggling my brows and Dean's face falls slightly.

"Please don't say it," he half begs, half moans.

"We gotta go after his lucky charms."

"Ugh," Dean groans at my terrible pun.


	6. Unlucky Charms, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo track down a meddlesome leprechaun.

_Still Devil's Lake, North Dakota_

Dean parks his Impala outside the McMansion where the lucky jack pot winners reside and kills the engine.

"You remember the plan?" he quizzes me for the third time since it was formulated.

"Yes," I groan, trying to keep as much annoyance out of my tone as possible, muttering under my breath, "it's not exactly a complicated one."

"Good," Dean says as he passes me a ziplock sandwich baggie containing a handful's worth of table salt. "Keep this handy," he firmly instructs. "You so much as see the guy, spill this so that..."

"He gets too distracted to attack me," I finish from memory. "Yeah, I got it."

"... and his skin burns at the touch of..."

"Iron and silver," I finish with an eye roll. "I'm packing silver bullets."

"Hey!" Dean snaps sternly as his brows collapse into an angered frown. "Am I boring you? Is me teaching you how to stay alive in this situation uninteresting to you?"

"... no." I hang my head shamefully.

"Take this," he says, holding out a short but wide silver blade.

"What are you taking?" I question as I accept the weapon, which I carefully tuck away in the inner left hand pocket of my green jacket.

With his right arm, Dean reaches for an object laying on the back seat. When he brings it into view, I see that it's an iron fireplace shovel.

"In case of fairies," he informs me.

I can't believe that's a sentence from real life.

"If these assholes started this whole thing and they've got the spell book, I guarantee fairies will be hanging around."

_Yeah, I know. You already told me. Three friggin' times._

He doesn't smell too much like whiskey. He can't be that drunk.

Dean casually unscrews the lid of his flask, takes a quick drink, and returns it to his pocket before giving me a silent "let's do this" nod.

I do as I'm told, gradually sauntering up the front walk as Dean silently slinks into the shadows and around to the back. I ring the doorbell and patiently await someone to answer.

While I wait, I wonder what exactly crawled up Dean's ass. Then I think about my first encounter with him. And then I think about Garth's "good luck" comment. And I realize that maybe this is actually what he's normally like.

The door swings open to reveal mama McMansion - aka Julie Crandall - the thin, middle aged woman with short, bob-style brunette hair and one missing son. The way her hazel eyes look at me, I know she recognizes me, and she produces a small, friendly smile.

"Hi, Mrs. Crandall," I politely greet her with a forced smile, my dark eyes falling to the Celtic style pendant that dangles from a long gold chain around her neck. "Sorry to bother you again."

"That's okay," she assures me with a kind but remorseful smile as she pulls her lose fitting sweater to a close in defense against the night chill. "Chuck, right? Palahniuk?"

"Yeah," I confirm my reporter alias, offering her an encouraging smile.

"Where's the other guy?" she asked curiously as she points to her left eye. "The one with the patch?"

"Steve," I refresh her memory of Dean's fake name. "He's, uh, he's actually why I'm here. I apologize, this is a little off topic and I don't ordinarily do things like this, but your necklace. It's Celtic, am I right?"

"Yes," Julie nods, her fingers absently stroking the object as I speak.

"His mom had one just like that," I tell her, pointing to the pendant in her grasp. "He hasn't been able to shut up about it since we left here the other day and I just have to know where you got it. You see, she passed not too long ago and his birthday is coming up. I thought it would be a nice gift."

"It would," she nodded, buying every word of my simple yet elaborate story. "I'm... um, I'm afraid I'm not... sure... where this came from, though. It was a gift. From... the Scott's."

Julie Crandall sucks at lying.

"That's too bad," I shake my head with false disappointment. From the corner of my eye I spy Dean round the side of the house. "You wouldn't happen to know if a local jeweler might have made it?"

"I don't think it's local," she tells me. Now that I believe.

"Thanks anyway," I tell her. "Again, sorry to bother you. Good luck finding your son."

"Mmhmm, thanks," she absently tells me before gently closing the door.

"Well?" Dean asks when we reconvene in the Impala.

"She said she got it from the Scott's," I reveal.

"The bee keepers?" Dean says, scratching his stubble-kissed chin with a thoughtful expression. "She might have. I didn't see any cream or fairies when I went around. I don't think they have the book."

 

We repeat the "plan" at the Scott's home ("where'd you get that great Celtic ring? 'Steve' has been going off about it, who sells them?") and obtain similar results; nervous stammering and eye shifting before giving up the great baker, Kira Stanton, as their supplier.

"You wanna switch places?" I offer when we get to the lonely divorcé's home, inserting a brief brow wiggle. "I hear she makes a mean pie."

"This is business, not a booty call," Dean insists with a slight frown. "Besides, you can't see fairies."

So I, again, take the front door while Dean slips into the shadows and works his way around the house. This time I'm invited inside where the middle aged woman with shoulder length bleach-blond hair insists I try a slice of fresh-from-the-oven pecan pie.

"I'll brew some coffee," she tells me and, for a minute, I feel kind of bad for her and her clear loneliness. But only until I remember she's the one who traded her only kid for good press.

"That's okay," I vaguely try to halt her hospitality. "I'm not going to be here long..."

Either her hearing is the most selective I've ever encountered or she's so desperate for company she completely ignores me. She dishes up a generous slice of still warm pie and places it on the white marble counter top before me as she motions for me to take a seat at the bar stool.

Out of politeness - or maybe it's pity, I can't tell - I take a seat.

"Go ahead," she urges me. "Try it."

She watches me with earnest, puppy dog eyes that I, oddly, can't resist. So, I take a small bite.

"Wow," I speak, partially to satisfy her, but also because of the flavor explosion that dances on my taste buds. "That's... that's damn good."

"Why thank you, honey," she says with a smile as she turns her back to brew up that pot of coffee she promised me. I happily continue eating, unsure if I want to greedily shovel the whole thing in or slowly savor each little bite.

"So, Ms. Stanton -" I begin with a mouthful of baked goods.

"Please, call me Kira," she insists.

"- Kira," I correct myself. "I actually came by to ask you about that pin you were wearing the other day. Looks kind of like a Celtic knot?"

Kira pauses long enough to keep my suspicions alive.

"Yeah?" she collects herself. "What about it?"

"I was just curious where you got it is all," I continue between bites. "My, uh, associate, Steve, seemed kind of captivated by it. His mom had one just like it, and I was just wondering..." I trail off momentarily when I notice the teal colored bowl set out on the center of the long, chestnut dining room table. It's filled with cream. "... where you might have picked it up...?"

I take another slow bite of pie as I peer out the French doors beyond the table and into the backyard. It takes everything I've got not to cry out in surprise when I see Dean swinging madly at seemingly nothing with his iron shovel. My jaw drops and I nearly loose a mouthful of pie as he is knocked backwards and off his feet by an invisible force.

I'm suddenly not entirely sure what I should do. I got so distracted by the pie, I can't decide if I should grab my gun and help the one-eyed hunter or if, since Dean seems to be distracting the fairies, I should help Kira get rid of them.

"It's an heirloom," Kira tells me, the best delivered lie I've heard all night.

"Listen, Kira," I begin after I've finally managed to choke down the bite I almost spit up. "I know about the leprechaun."

" _What?!_ " Kira almost yells in shock. She's really good at playing dumb.

"The deal you made with the leprechaun," I press. "Fame and fortune in exchange for your first born? Or, rather, a lucky charm in exchange for your first born."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Kira insists with a huff.

"So that's not my partner outside swinging iron at little winged people?" I ask, motioning to the backyard. Kira and I both glance back out the French doors in time to witness Dean madly wheeling his shovel around.

"Die, you fucking fairy freaks!" he growls loudly as he forcefully swings his weapon around. It takes a lot for me to not just crack up on the spot. I mean, seriously. How is this _not_ funny?

Kira cocks a brow at this before glancing back at me.

"He's got them distracted for now," I go on. "I don't think we can bring your son back, but we can stop them from abducting anyone else's. What I need you to do is calmly get whatever book the spell came from, reverse it and send that bastard packing to whatever realm he came from."

"Now, why on earth would I do that?" Kira questions, tilting her head to the side. "I kind of like it over here."

_Son of a bitch._

"You..." I sputter, my eyes growing wide as I slowly begin to edge myself away. "... _you?_ "

"I know, not what you were expecting," Kira says with a small grin as she gently strokes her hair. "I'm naturally a brunette, but over here I can be anything. Blond, redhead. Christ, I can even get away with blue hair over here. Blue. At my age, too."

This surprise reveal has me seized in a temporary moment of panic. Dean told me what to do three, maybe four times. And I can't remember. I rolled my eyes at him and now I can't remember.

"H-how?" I stammer a question in effort to buy myself more time to remember. "Why?"

"The Crandall's called me over to help them with their financial woes," Kira tells me with a satisfied smile on her lips. "And once the Crandall's got their good luck charm and took home the jack pot - or, pot of gold, as it were - the Scott's wanted one of their own."

"What about you?" I wonder. "Why help yourself?"

"Why _not_ help myself?" she answers my question with another question. "You think I want to go back? You know what it's like over there? In my realm? A never-ending saga of Medieval drama and filth. They don't even have a freaking telegraph system but you guys. Oh man, you guys have it made over here."

"Your son, Johnny," I begin to speculate.

"Totally fake," she easily admits. "Never existed. I made him up to throw hunters like you off my trail. Looks like it worked." She pauses to glance at Dean, who continues to wildly flail the iron shovel at the air outside. "Wasn't expecting anyone who'd been to my realm to show up, of course. I'll have to ask him how he escaped before I kill him."

"The Crandall's son...?" I ask, ignoring her comment about killing Dean.

"They knew there was a price," Kira tells me, folding her arms crossly. "No one gets rich quick without paying for it, not even over here with your stupid little demons. Don't forget, they're the ones who called. I'm just the lucky leprechaun who answered."

"Where'd they even get the book?" I can't help but wonder.

"A flea-market of all places," Kira tells me with an amused tone. "Don't bother going back there for it. I've got it now. Couldn't have them welching on their deal. Like I said, I kind of like it over here."

"You don't belong here," I growl at her and she rolls her eyes.

"Come on, now," she says. "Can't we do this like civilized... well, beings?"

"What do you mean?" I ask as my fingers gradually go for the gun I've packed in my right jacket pocket, partially out of instinct, but also in case this conversation takes that sudden turn in the wrong direction that I've grown accustom to.

"The whole 'I'm a hunter and I must take you out because it's my job' schtick," she waves her hands. "It's so passé. And unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" I echo. "You're taking innocent kids and you think this is unnecessary?"

"True," she admits with a small nod and a thoughtful expression. "We could duke it out because I'm just doing my job and you feel the need to do yours. Or." She gives a dramatic pause as she looks me over. "Or we could make a deal."

"Please," I roll my eyes. "That's the first rule of hunting. Never make a deal."

"It's not souls I'm after," Kira puts on a sweet voice as she pouts. "What I'd take from you is something you'd never miss."

I have a hard time believing that.

"Come on, 'Chuck'," she says, air quoting the name she knows is false. "Isn't there something you've always wanted? A girlfriend maybe? Or a daddy?"

I try not to let her last guess get to me as my fingers make contact with the weapon in my pocket.

"You know what I'd like?" I ask her as I take a firm hold of my pistol. "I'd like for you to eat silver."

By the time I've managed to withdraw my firearm, she's disappeared. Rather, she's gone invisible.

"Come now," her voice laughs from somewhere within the kitchen. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

I make an educated guess on her location based on where her voice comes from and squeeze off a single shot. This attempt throws her into a fit of laughter that seemingly comes from everywhere. I curse myself for forgetting what it was Dean told me to do. Iron burns, silver burns worse, but what stops them long enough...

Salt!

I reach into my pocket just as a set of invisible hands close themselves around my throat and shove me into a wall. The gun falls from my grasp, but I maintain focus on fishing out the sandwich baggie stuffed somewhere in my jean's pocket.

"Do me a favor," I choke as my fingertips discover the plastic edges. "And count this!"

With gusto, I bring forth the bag. To my horror and the lady leprechaun's delight, the baggie is completely empty.

"One!" she laughs, clearly tickled by my stroke of ill-luck. "One torn, sad little bag."

Her fingers tighten, cutting off my precious supply of oxygen. This only drives me to try again as I reach back into my pocket.

"... this..." I gasp as my face turns red or blue or some shade it shouldn't be. Kira becomes visible once more as I throw a handful of salt on the ground beneath me, a look of disgust and horror crossing her face.

"No!" she cries in a fit of anger as she's forced to release me from her death grip.

I cough as she drops with a heavy thud to the floor and sullenly begins the tedious task of counting the grains. That should keep her busy for a while, but it would be nice to secure enough time to find the spell book and send her back to the miserable realm she crawled out of. So I rummage through her cupboards and, to my luck, I find a large, unopened bag of pure, granulated sugar.

"When you're done with that," I tell her, cutting a hole in the bottom with the silver knife Dean had given me. "Why don't you count this for me."

She watches with horror as I spill five pounds worth of sugar crystals onto the floor in front of her and toss the bag aside.

"You know, it's funny," I muse as I watch her grumble over her chore. "Here you are, this all-powerful being from another realm, and all it takes to stop you is a pile of freaking sugar. I gotta say, as some one who hacks heads off vamps and sets wendigos on fire, I'm not super impressed with you fairy folk."

I don't stick around to hear her response, if there is one. Instead I head out back to see how Dean's fairing in his battle. By the time I've stepped into the well manicured lawn, Dean is wildly hammering at the ground in one spot.

"Die, fairy fucks!" he's yelling as his shovel strikes the ground. "Argh!"

"I found the leprechaun," I say when I'm sure Dean's successfully crushed to death the last of the pesky fairies.

"Good," Dean pants, clearly out of breath. "Where is he?"

"She's inside," I motion. "Counting a handful of salt before she can get to the five pounds of sugar I dropped."

"She?" Dean echoes.

"Yeah," I confirm with a simple head nod. "It's Kira, actually."

"Huh," Dean breaths, somewhat surprised but, considering the things he's seen, far from entirely.

"The book's inside," I continue. "I think we've got time to find it and send her packing. If not, I think I saw a box of salt in the cupboard."

"Good," Dean says again, slinging the shovel over his shoulder before striding along side me back towards the house. "I fucking hate fairies."


	7. Hunted

_Titusville, Florida_

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now this very minute. Riding in the Impala with Dean? Cold. Guess again. Sunbathing at the beach with Dean? That was kind of a weird guess. And you're lot colder. One more guess. Eating a bucket of fried shrimp with Dean while we explore a hiking trail through the swamp lands where, at any minute, an alligator could jump up and bite my ankles or a massive mother fucking python could slither down from a tree and swallow me whole.

That was actually the worst guess yet, but it reminded me why Michigan is my preferred peninsula, as far as peninsula states go.

Anyway, I'm not currently with Dean. He's on a food and booze run. Me, I'm sitting in a dark motel room. Oh, and I'm tied to a fucking chair.

The only reason we're in this smelly, muggy, reptile and serpent infested state is because Dean thought it was necessary to track down the guy who sold the Crandall's their Celtic Fairy spell book and make sure there weren't any others like it. Yes, you heard me. Dean Winchester drove us all the way from North Dakota to fucking Florida on a search and destroy all spell books mission.

Half the way there I begged him to let me call it into Garth and have one of the newer hunters do it. Or one of the fresh from the loony bin and ready to hunt again but not really quite ready yet hunters. Even Garth would take this non-case, since it doesn't conflict with his whole being a werewolf thing.

But noooo. Dean said it was our job. Our boring ass, flea-market browsing, book burning job. And now I'm tied to a fucking chair.

I'm a little sore about the whole thing, if you couldn't tell. I generally can't stand an hours worth of shopping let alone three whole days of it. Also, I'M TIED TO A FUCKING CHAIR.

The worst part about this, in my opinion, is the thing that got the jump on me is some lanky ass looking, dark haired kid who looks to be about twenty. He sits silently on the edge of one of the queen sized beds, calmly twirling a long dagger whose blade shimmers in the small amount of light that peeks in from the parking lot.

"Will you at least tell me what you are?" I ask him while I quietly fight against my restraints. "If you're going to kill me, I think I deserve to know what's about to do me in."

"I'm not going to kill you," the kid responds sincerely. "Once I have accomplished what I came here for, I assure you I will leave you unharmed." Pause. "Bearing in mind you can't hold me accountable for any rope burns you may give yourself if you keep struggling like that."

"So you're what again?" I ask, temporarily abandoning operation: free and flee. "And you've tied me up why?"

"I'm a kitsune," he tells me.

"A what?"

"Kitsune," he repeats.

"I've never heard of that," I admit, briefly wondering if he's made it up.

"There aren't many of us," he acknowledges. "And I've tied you to the chair so you don't get in my way."

"In your way?" I echo as a question. It hits me as the words leave my lips. "You're here for Dean, aren't you?"

His silence serves as his response. He hangs his head and I could swear he almost seems remorseful about it.

"I've never killed anyone before," he tells me quietly with a slight quiver in his voice. The way he tells me this, I know he's telling me the truth. Which is actually kind of confusing.

"Pardon my ignorance," I begin. "But what kind of monster _doesn't_ kill?"

Even in the dark I can see the disgusted, angry frown that creases his brows as he gives me a cold stare. I've clearly struck a nerve.

"You hunters are all the same," he spits defensively. "Judging us by what we are instead of who we are. I am a kitsune, not a monster. Yes, I must feed on pituitary glands to survive, but they don't have to come from the living. I don't have to, nor do I ever, kill for my own survival. No, I am not the monster here. Your buddy Dean, though. He fits the definition. Your hunter pal Dean, he's the only monster in this town tonight."

The way he says Dean, I can tell this is personal. Like he's spent years letting the hate build up inside of him while he plotted his vengeance.

"Listen, kid," I begin as I return to struggling against my snug bindings. "I'm sorry about your mom or your dad or your sister or whoever Dean killed. But we don't go out looking for things to kill for shits and giggles. We follow a trail made of corpses, which means mommy was a monster and had to be put down."

A hot rage flashes in his eyes and, for a minute, he thinks about going back on his promise not to kill me. That is, until I'm saved by the bell. The bell in this scenario being the roaring engine of Dean's Impala pulling into the parking lot.

"I'm really sorry about this," the kid apologizes as he swiftly wanders towards me and stuffs a clean hand towel in my mouth. "You just happened to be at the wrong place at the right time."

"Hurmm mur hmm mhmm," I try to speak through my gag while the kid hides in the shadow behind the door.

I've never been gagged before. I gotta say, it's not what I was expecting based on what I've seen on TV or in movies. I used to watch scenes like this and wonder why the guy tied to a chair or a bed or whatever didn't just spit the rag out. I now know it's because there's too much material tucked too far back to be able to repel from your mouth. It's so far back, I almost gag.

For an obnoxiously long minute the room falls into an eerie silence as the two of us wait for Dean to join the fun. My heart begins to thump just a little faster and harder as I hear the sound of his keys jingle before the door unlocks. I make as much noise as I can to warn the older hunter not to come in, but all I can manage are muffled gurgling sounds.

Dean steps into the room holding a brown paper bag in his left arm and a six-pack in his right. He glances around the dark room and finally sees me when he turns his head to his left. The look on his face when he discovers my predicament is less confused or surprised. It's more of a 'well, shit' expression. He's not even taken aback when the door suddenly slams behind him and the kid steps out of the shadows with his blade pointed at the hunter.

"Dean Winchester," the kid says, holding his blade menacingly out in front of him. "I've been waiting for this day for a very long time. Hands where I can see 'em."

Dean sighs but does as Knife Boy instructs, placing his bag and six pack on the closest bed before raising both of his hands.

"I told you this day would come," the kid goes on and Dean actually rolls his eye.

"I'm sure you did," he says with an unenthusiastic, borderline bored tone. "Who are you?"

The young stranger lets out a short, angry snort and I'm sure his cheeks are flushed in rage. As if this kid didn't hate Dean enough already. Nothing takes the wind out of your revenge sails like the guy you're about to pay back not having a clue who you are.

"Jacob," the kid responds, his weapon still up in the air in front of him. "Jacob Pond."

Dean gives Jacob a small shrug, indicating his memory has yet to be jogged.

"Amy Pond was my mother," Jacob tries again, the wrath in his tone rising.

The name clearly sparks something in Dean's head, but his expression tells us he's not sure why or from where.

"The kitsune your brother let live? The one you murdered."

Recognition strikes Dean at this reminder, something that seems to satisfy Jacob.

"Oh, yeah," Dean nods as the memory resurfaces. "You did tell me you'd kill me, didn't you? Good for you on finding me. That couldn't have been easy."

"Shut up!" Jacob yells, clearly irritated by Dean's seeming lack of concern that there's a vengeful monster waving a knife in his face. For a minute no one says anything as the kitsune glares down the hunter who looks like he just wants this to be over so he can get on with his night. I keep fighting the ropes that hold me in place.

"Why?" Jacob asks at long last. "Why couldn't you just let us go? Your brother, Sam. He let us go. Why couldn't you?"

"Look," Dean rolls his head. "In retrospect, maybe my brother was right to let her just walk. Maybe. But your mom did kill people."

"For me!" Jacob yelled, fighting back the tears that fill his eyes. "She killed three assholes to save her son!"

"Maybe they were assholes," Dean shrugs. "Maybe they weren't. Your mom killed them, I killed her. End of story."

"No!" Jacob speaks through clenched teeth, shaking his head as he fearlessly walks closer to Dean. "Not end of story. This story ends when I've avenged my mother's death. The same way you ended her." He pauses to let Dean eye the blade that's meant to take his life. "With a knife in your heart."

Insert an epic and dramatic silence as the two stare each other down. Jacob, he's caught between nervousness for taking a life and utter joy that he's finally about to get the vengeance that's fueled his very existence for the past... well, I don't know how long exactly. At least ten years, since Sam was alive for the beginning of this tale.

Dean's expression is harder to read. His face remains stern, solid. Almost emotionless. His eye, however, keeps a subtle spark of guilt. Emptiness. As if he hopes Jacob follows through with his threat because he thinks he deserves to die, but not just for what he did to the kid's mom all those years ago. For all sorts of crap that's built up inside of him.

_Oh my god. Is this what happens to hunters? Is this what's going to happen to me?_

_Wait, don't think about that right now. Get the hell out of this chair and stab the little freak with... shit, I don't have a weapon. I'll bludgeon him then. Or, at least, knock him unconscious._

"Any last words, Dean Winchester?" Jacob says, his voice hovering just above a whisper.

"Nope," Dean says, his eye never leaving Jacob's.

The seconds that follow pass by at an excruciatingly slow rate. Jacob draws his knife back, just above his head to gain enough inertia to drive the blade through Dean's chest. Dean, he watches this. Just watches. His eye on the blade glistening in the neon light from the motel parking lot, glad to see it descend.

"Mruhmmmmmm!" I try to yell through my gag, a sound that catches Dean's attention. He looks at me, blinks, then returns his focus to the descending knife.

Just as Jacob's knife is about to penetrate the soft leather of his jacket, Dean takes a firm grip of the kid's wrist. In the blink of an eye, the weapon transfers hands and Dean sinks the sharp blade into Jacob's own heart.

The kid's mouth gapes open as he blinks furiously in surprise.

" _No..._ " he whispers before he staggers backwards and falls to the brown shag carpet and exhales his last breath.

Dean gives Jacob a quick but through glance to make sure he's not getting back up. Then he glances up at me and says;

"You hungry?"

"Hrmm muhmmm," I grumble, my brows folded in anger.

"Oh, right," he says, swiftly stepping towards me.

"What the fuck!?" I yell at him the instant he's pulled the towel out of my mouth. I watch him through angry eyes as his own hunting knife begins slicing my bonds.

"What?" Dean asks, confused by my hostile tone. "You like deep fried sea food, right?"

"Dude," I motion to Jacob, the guy who's been dead for all of ten seconds. "We've got a dead kid laying in the middle of the floor!"

"No," Dean shakes his head as he rises to his feet. "We've got a dead kitsune on the floor."

"Whatever," I say, rubbing my wrists. "Did you know he was coming?"

"More or less," Dean replies vaguely with a casual shrug. "Help me wrap him up in one of these sheets. We'll stash him in the tub for now. It's too early to carry a corpse through the parking lot."

"What does 'more or less' mean?" I question, my tone still irritated.

"It means 'more or less'," Dean returns, stripping the white sheets from the bed not currently occupied with hot food and cold beer. He carefully drapes it over Jacob's body before bothering to flick a light on.

"I don't know what that means," I say with an annoyed tone as I bend down to assist Dean in the dirty work of wrapping a dead body in a sheet.

"It means," he begins as we move the body to the bathroom, "I didn't know what would come or when, but I knew something would eventually come at some point."

"What?" I shake my head as I help Dean place the wrapped up kitsune in the bath tub. "Is there another hit list out there with your name on it? You got anything else coming after you?"

"Probably," Dean shrugs like it's nothing. He pauses to wash his hands before he makes his way back to the food. "You hungry yet?"

"Like what?" I ask with a voice laced with frustration.

"I don't know," he says with a deep sigh, extracting the flask from his pocket. He takes a long, hard swig as he scavenges his alcohol soaked mind for the answer. "Demons. Angels. Maybe some vamps. Probably some ghosts if we ever end up in their vicinity. Shifters, gods, ghouls. Witches. I've spent a lot of time pissing a lot of things off. It's hard to say who's hit list I've made."

"And you casually failed to mention this to me?" I fume.

"It's part of the job," he tells me flatly yet sternly. He pauses to take a drink from his flask. "At first," he goes on, pocketing the flask as he speaks, "you think you're gonna die bloody on your feet. No matter what, it's gonna be bloody, but after a while your chances of dying sitting down go up. You think you're just saving people? Making all the bad nightmares go away? Well, you're making enemies, too, and it's just a matter of time before one of them catches up with you."

Of course I'm making enemies. Only, it's one of those things that you know, but you don't _really_ know. Like when you know that it's a bad idea to keep drinking all night, but you don't _really_ know it either, because you're in the moment and that moment is awesome and screw what happens in the morning.

I let this realization digest as I quietly watch Dean extract white to-go boxes from the brown paper bag, along with plastic forks and two paper plates. He carries this all to the small, round table and, with his back turned, asks "You want cocktail sauce or tartar sauce?" as he begins plating our meal.

"Both," I absently reply as a new question surfaces. "Hey, Dean. Can I ask you a question?"

"You like crab cakes, right?"

"When Jacob was about to stab you," I begin softly. "It, uh, it kind of looked like you were going to let him. You weren't... you weren't really going to let him kill you, right?"

Pause.

"Hush puppy?"


	8. Smells Like Demon Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets his first taste of demonic activity.

_Between Here & There_

"Check this out. Texas resident, Peggy Hill, survives fall from airplane after parachute malfunction."

I look up from my laptop and across the table at Dean who idly chews a bite of cheeseburger. He squints at the almost obnoxious amount of midday sunlight that floods the crowded diner, taking a sip of his coffee to rinse down the red meat before responding.

"Sounds more like a miracle than a monster," he points out.

"Fair enough," I admit, returning to my computer in an effort to dig up a fresh case. "Okay, how about this. Archeologists unearth a fossil that dates back hundreds of thousands of years."

"That seems news worthy," Dean mutters sarcastically, rolling his eye before taking another bite of his lunch.

"But wait, there's more!" I speak with an enthusiastic tone, mimicking an infomercial spokesman. "This fossil is of a watch that would have been manufactured by a Swiss company ten, maybe twenty years ago."

"Intriguing," Dean grants me that much. "Except the last time I checked, I'm Dean Winchester, not Doctor Who. Anyway, I'm on a time travel diet."

"What does that even mean?" I can't help but wonder.

"You get knocked into the 1940's by Cronos and then tell me time travel is fun or worth getting involved with," Dean replies as he casually glances over his shoulder before extracting his flask. "Then again, you'd need a time machine for that since Cronos is dead."

I watch as he adds an Irish flare to his coffee before returning his flask to its proper pocket.

"Really?" I ask without thought. "It's barely noon, dude."

"Yeah," Dean nods, taking a slow sip of the steaming hot beverage. "But it's Ireland somewhere."

I let out a small sigh and pretend to ignore this, focusing once more on the web pages my search engine brings to my attention.

"Here's one," I say, my eyes excitedly scanning an article from a Nevada newspaper. "This guy, Alex Trudeau, was legally dead for ten minuets. He comes to without being resuscitated, screaming his head off before he starts babbling about Hell."

"I'm listening," Dean urges me to continue with a look of mild interest in his eye.

"Said he spent weeks in the pit," I go on and Dean nods.

"Sounds like Hell time," he agrees I might be on to something. "The article say anything else?"

"Yeah, actually," I nod. "He insisted on salting the doorway and windows in his room, saying demons would be looking for him to drag him back down." I pause to look up at Dean. "Seems like something worth checking into."

"Does it say how he died in the first place?" Dean asks, intrigued but skeptical.

"Head trauma," I respond. "Caused by a car accident."

"I donno," Dean scratches his stubble kissed chin in thought. "Dude might just be crazy."

"Maybe," I slowly admit. "But it wasn't a Hell hound that killed him, which means this probably isn't a contract collection. And he did accurately recount what Hell time is like."

Dean sits back in his booth, giving my points some consideration as he sips his coffee.

"Where'd this happen?" he asks after a moment or two of silence.

"Las Vegas," I reply, which causes Dean to frown.

"That's two days from here," he states unenthusiastically.

"Yeah," I acknowledge this small detail. "But this guy might have demons on his ass. Isn't it kind of our job to help him out?"

"Fine," Dean grumbles before downing the rest of his coffee in one long, giant gulp. "Better make some tracks then."

\- - - - -

_Las Vegas, Nevada_

When we reach Sin City, Dean and I go CDC to infiltrate Alex Trudeau's medical records.

"Why is the CDC interested in this?" Trudeau's doctor - a trim, younger redheaded woman - questions as we flip through a thin manila folder.

"Trust me, lady," Dean responds, his eye on the few pages before him. "You don't want to know."

"As a medical professional, I think I deserve an explanation," the woman states, impatiently folding her arms across her chest. I rack my brain for a valid excuse, but Dean beats me to it with a smooth response that almost clashes with his eye patch and unshaven face. Not that the clean black suit didn't already do that.

"You ever hear of a 'zombie virus', Doctor Green?" he questions the woman who seems somewhat taken aback by his question, managing only a head shake in response. "It's a rare virus that causes reanimation in corpses. It surfaced about ten, fifteen years ago and has been mostly confined to Cambodia, but we have reason to suspect it may have traveled state side. The effects are, of course, somewhat temporary, letting the body go on for anywhere between a few hours and a few days, sometimes a few weeks. Which doesn't sound so bad, except the human brain suffers an extremely high amount of damage, usually resulting in insanity. Kind of like, oh, I don't know, screaming about Hell and thinking demons are after them. Sound familiar?"

Dr. Green gulps as Dean holds up Alex Trudeau's records.

"It's... it's not contagious, is it?" she nervously asks, glancing between the two of us.

"Only if he bites you," Dean replies. "He didn't bite you, did he?"

"N-no," the good doctor shakes her head.

"Good," Dean nods, closing the folder. "If you don't mind, we'd like to take a look at Mr. Trudeau ourselves. Make sure he's just a miracle case and not infected with this rare but serious disease. In case a quarantine is in order."

"Um," Dr. Green nervously looks between us as her cheeks begin to flush a bright shade of red. "I'd like to but... see, the thing is, he was discharged yesterday afternoon."

" _What?_ " Dean's face falls as his brows crease into a frown. "He was _what?_ "

"I'm sorry," the doctor sighs. "I mean, he seemed fine. Perfectly healthy other than the whole Hell nonsense."

"You're telling us," I jump in, my expression matching Dean's. "That you discharged a patient who's mental state was clearly unsound? Zombie virus or not, that sounds like a poor judgment call on your behalf."

"I'm sorry," the doctor apologizes, her gaze falling shamefully to the floor. "He seemed fine beyond that. And I wouldn't have released him had I thought he were a danger to society."

"I need his home address," Dean presses her urgently. "You better pray he's just insane and not infected. Either way, your license ought to be reviewed."

\- - - - -

"You were kind of harsh back there," I tell Dean when we arrive at the address Dr. Green managed to scrawl for us through teary eyes.

"Maybe," Dean shrugs, clearly giving little care either way. "It's true though. Even if this guy does have demons on his ass, you can't just get away with babbling about that kind of stuff to normal people without a serious head evaluation."

"There's not really a zombie virus, is there?" I can't help but ask as we amble up to the front door of Alex Trudeau's small, sand colored ticky-tacky home.

"There is, actually," Dean replies, knocking on the white door before loosening the navy blue tie that hangs neatly around his neck. "I don't think it's that bad though. Not sure where it is, either. Cambodia just sounded believable."

We wait at the front door for a minute before Dean knocks again.

"Mr. Trudeau!" he calls in his deep, gruff voice. "You in there, Alex? We're just checkin' up on you."

He knocks a third time, growing impatient.

"Come on, Trudeau!" he calls. "We're here to save you from demons!"

His fist rises to the door again but pauses when a distinct smell reaches his nose.

"You smell that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust while his brows fold in concern.

"It wasn't me," I say, defensively holding my hands up.

"Of course it wasn't," he rolls his eye. Now that he mentions it, it does smell kind of bad around here. Like rotten eggs.

Glancing down, something grabs Dean's attention. He bends to investigate a yellow, powdery substance by running his fingers through it.

"Shit," he mutters, quickly rising to an upright position.

"What?" I have to ask. "What is it?"

"Sulfur," he says, allowing me to momentarily study the stuff before he wipes it on the leg of his clean black slacks. I gulp.

"That's a sign of demons, right?" I hesitantly ask as Dean glances around the neighborhood.

"Yeah," he nods, squinting through the afternoon sun to make sure we're not being watched.

"This might be a bad time to mention this," I nervously begin. "But I've never actually dealt with demons before."

"It's a good thing you're with me, then," Dean replies. "You got that knife I gave you?"

I open my suit jacket to reveal the bone hilt of the special demon killing blade Dean had gifted me some months back.

"Good," he says, extracting what almost looks like a small sword composed of silver or stainless steel. "You take the front. I'll go around back."

I let out a swift but heavy exhale as I mentally prepare myself for something completely new. I crack my neck and shake my arms in an attempt to rid myself of the nerves that send messages to my brain to run. Which would be the logical thing to do here. Except I'm a hunter and hunters don't run.

 _Just kick the door down,_ I tell myself as my right hand firmly grasps the hilt still hidden in my jacket. _You're a hunter for god's sake._

"I am a hunter," I tell myself.

_If there were ever a time to have your first demon encounter, it's with Dean._

"I'm hunting demons with Dean Winchester."

_This is the best possible time to prove to him you've got what it takes._

"This is my chance to prove myself."

_And, you're Ben Freakin' Braden._

"I'm Ben Fucking Braden."

_Quit psyching yourself up and get the hell in there!_

"Argh!"

I kick in the front door and brandish my blade as soon as I've made it across the threshold.

And then I almost vomit.

"Oh god..." I mutter, covering my nose and my mouth with my elbow as my eyes begin to water and my stomach clenches.

To a certain extent, I'm beginning to understand Dean a little more. It's one thing to decapitate a vampire, shoot a werewolf down or dig up a pile of dusty old bones. It's another thing entirely to witness the mutilated remains of what once was a regular, non-monster human being. I'll probably be a whiskey imbibing, angst ridden hunter by the time I reach Dean's age too. Maybe not as bad, but still...

Dean finds his way to the living room from the back of the house and immediately lowers his weapon when he sees what's currently making a valiant effort to expel any remnants of food I might have in my stomach. On the otherwise bare white wall is a message painted with a hurried hand in massive, red strokes. "I'M IN HELL" it reads. Just beside it is a sole hand print that runs all the way down the wall to the beige, burberry carpet. Just below the message lays the body of Alex Trudeau. Rather, what's left of his body, which is ripped to shreds in a manner so brutal it would put a windego's handiwork to shame.

I really start to gag when I realize the message isn't written in paint.

"Damn it," Dean curses with an aggravated breath.

I'd say "I told you so", but I can't take much solace in that. Not now. Not when we're this late.

"What did that?" I gasp.

"Hell hound," Dean shakes his head and gives a vague shiver. "Poor bastard."

"Why?" I ask, despite the fact that Dean's guess is as good as mine.

"Because," an unfamiliar, gruff, and English accented voice speaks from somewhere behind. "No one escapes Hell. Not while I'm in charge."

Dean glances up as I twirl around to face the dark haired man who stands just feet behind me wearing a clean black suit and a smug smile.

"Hello boys."


	9. Drinks, Strippers & The King Of Hell

_Las Vegas (still)_

I've never seen a demon before but I know, without a doubt in my mind, that's exactly what I'm looking at. This dark haired, dark eyed man that stands just oven an arm's length away couldn't possibly be human. At least, the thing inside of him isn't. Not with the way he smirks at us.

A low growl escapes my throat as I adjust the grasp on my blade, something that clearly amuses the demon.

"Call your dog off, would you?" the demon casually requests.

"Put the knife down, Ben," Dean instructs me in a calm tone.

" _What?!_ " I all but yell, my eyes darting over to Dean in time to watch him sheath his own weapon.

"I said, put the knife down," he repeats with a stern look.

Instinct tells me no fucking way. Don't put the knife away, don't turn your back. Lunge forward and stab the guy right in the neck.

Logic tells me I'd be dead before I got half way there.

Still...

"Ben!" Dean barks. "Stow it!"

Gradually, cautiously, begrudgingly, I lower my weapon, but I don't put it away. The stranger sneers. I return his gesture with a cold, hard stare.

"Your new partner seems as fond of me as Moose was," the demon makes a casual observation as he glances me over. "Not as big, though."

"What's this all about, Crowley?" Dean asks, ignoring the banter and getting right to business by motioning to the remains of Alex Trudeau. "Did you do this?"

"Yes and no," the demon shifts his attention to Dean. "I can't take credit for the dirty work, but I did release the hounds."

"Why?" Dean demands to know. "Dude died in a car crash."

"'Dude' made a deal," the demon explains. "It's not my fault he expired before his ten years were up."

"But he came back," Dean argues.

"Yes, well, there was a slight snafu in the pit. Embarrassing, really. Long story short, his soul should never have escaped and I'm simply here to collect what's already mine."

I'm surprised by how easily Dean seems to accept this response. Surprised and a little disturbed.

And why does the name Crowley sound so familiar to me?

"You know, Dean," the demon begins. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that eye patch. You know, I could fix that for -"

"Thanks," Dean interrupts with a fake smile. "But no thanks."

"At least let Castiel give you a new one," Crowley rolls his eyes. "You look like a bloody pirate."

Dean frowns, but not because the demon called him a pirate.

"You know Cas is dead," he grumbles.

"Do I?" Crowley questions, cocking his head to one side. "Tell me, Dean, did you actually witness Castiel's demise?"

"... no," Dean admits, taken somewhat aback by the prospect his friend might still be out there.

"Even if you had, in fact, witnessed Castiel's final moments of existence, could you say for certain he was indeed dead? Feathered git has an annoying habit of coming back."

Dean lets this realization sink in.

"What do you know?" Dean presses with a narrowed eye.

"Nothing, really," Crowley shrugs. "A few whispered words in the wind. Supposedly your pal Cas has been playing human, but no one knows where or why."

"And I should believe you because...?" Dean wants to know.

"What reason could I possibly have to trick you about such a thing?" Crowley returns.

"That's a better question," Dean points out and Crowley sighs.

"Believe me, don't believe me. It's all the same to me." The demon pauses. "I don't know about you, but I've worked up quite a thirst. And, since we are in the city of sin, it would be a shame to waste that thirst on dime store Scotch. What do you say then? You chaps fancy a drink and a lap dance? It's on me."

"As long as you're not the one giving out lap dances," Dean accepts the offer and I can't help but drop my jaw. "And no deals while we're there."

"Aw, you're no fun," Crowley grins before giving me a wink. "I'll see you gents at the club."

The demon vanishes before my eyes, leaving nothing but a strong, sulfuric residue in his wake.

"I'm dreaming," I speak with a stunned tone, staring blankly at the spot Crowley had occupied. "I'm having a nightmare and any second now you're going to wake me up and tell me we have a case to get to. One that doesn't involve hanging out with demons."

"What, Crowley?" Dean smoothly says with a casual shrug. "He's not so bad for the King of Hell."

That's where I've heard his name. It's gotta be.

"So that really just happened?" I blink over to Dean. "We just let the King of Hell poof out of here without attempting to stop him, and now we're going to go hang out with him at a strip club?"

"He is buying," Dean points out.

"Not one week ago you stabbed a kid who'd never killed anyone in his life," I point out with a breath of rage. "And you just let the head honcho of demons escape after mutilating some poor guy's body?"

"No," Dean shakes his head. "I stabbed a kitsune which was, in case your view wasn't so great, out of self defense. And this 'poor guy' made a deal. Crowley was just collecting. Yes it's brutal and disgusting and painful as hell, but that's what happens when you sell your soul."

My lips move, but nothing comes out. I'm not convinced and I'm confused as hell.

"Look," Dean begins with a sigh when he's noticed his words don't bring me comfort. "I know this probably goes against your every instinct as a hunter."

"You're damn right it does," I agree.

"Hunting is not as black and white as you think it is," Dean continues, ignoring my last comment. "It's not just about killing the things that go bump in the night. It's about doing what's best for the world. Believe it or not, Crowley on the throne is the best thing. You think if I killed him, Hell would just fall into ruins? If Crowley died, some other black eyed or red eyed bitch would take his place. I'm not gonna stand here and tell you he's my favorite person, but by now I know him. I know when he's up to something and I know his tricks. Yes, he's a demon, but as far as demons go, believe me when I say he's not that bad. Not as bad as he could be."

I'm skeptical about any demon being "not that bad", especially the King, but I don't have much of a choice but to listen to Dean. He's the expert on Hell bitches, after all. And, once again, he makes perfect sense and, once again, I feel like a dumb kid.

"Fine," I grumble in defeat. "That doesn't mean I have to like hanging out with him."

"I would be concerned if you did."

\- - - - -

"Are you just going to sit there and sulk, then?"

Crowley looks at me expectantly as a thin, busty blond swirls around a pole in American flag underwear six feet in front of us.

"Ladies not your thing, mate? There's a club you might prefer just down the block a ways."

"He's still getting used to the concept of not killing all fugglies," Dean explains my sullen behavior, his eye fastened to the woman on stage as he speaks.

"Ah, yes," Crowley nods as he continues to study me. "I forgot how uppity the young ones can be about that."

"I'm not young," I spit. "I'm twenty-five."

Crowley raises an amused brow.

"You know, we have yet to be properly introduced," he says as he holds out his right hand. "Crowley, King of Hell. And you are...?"

I narrow my eyes at him but I don't respond, nor do I shake his hand.

"That's Ben," Dean introduces me, his eye never leaving the stage.

"Ben," Crowley repeats as he withdraws his hand. "You look familiar, mate."

"I don't know why I would," I tell him with a cold breath.

"I don't either," Crowley admits, closely eyeing me. "Don't you worry. I'm sure it'll come to me."

I try to direct my attention to the stage, but it's almost impossible with the King of Hell studying me so closely. It's uncomfortable, having a guy like that focused so intently on you. The weird thing, though, is the longer he stares, the more I get the feeling that he's actually kind of familiar to me, too. Not just his name from stories other hunters have passed around, but from some kind of past encounter my brain won't let me remember.

Crowley finally looses interest in me when a young, bleach blond woman in a skimpy cowboy costume delivers our drink orders; a top shelf Scotch for the King, a middle of the road beer for Dean and a nice tall glass of ice water for me.

"I dig the patch," she flirts with Dean as she leans in close to show off her probably fake cleavage while dispersing our beverages. "Were you in the war?"

"Yeah," Dean tells her, clearly drawn to her... let's call them assets. "I've been in a couple of them."

"How courageous," the woman goes on with an airy voice, seductively running her manicured fingers down his right arm. "I have a thing for veterans. Especially the well aged ones."

She departs with a wink, taking with her Dean's longing gaze. His eye still on her, he takes one lengthy gulp before happily slapping his hands together.

"I'll be right back," he announces, rising from his seat. "I gotta go... uh, hit the head."

"Among other things," Crowley mutters as he sips his Scotch.

"Dude." I grab Dean's arm before he can pass me. "You're seriously gonna leave me here with him?" I ask, speaking through clenched teeth. "So you can go bang a stripper?"

"What? No," Dean shakes his head. "She's a server, not a stripper. Less glitter." He winks - or maybe it's a really awkward blink. "Don't worry. I wouldn't leave you with him if I didn't think you couldn't handle it."

He gives me an excited pat on the shoulder before scampering off to meet up with the cowgirl. I gulp. Crowley's lips spread into a wide smile, clearly pleased either by the situation itself or my glaringly obvious discomfort. Maybe it's both.

I take a long, hard swallow from my glass, attempting not to look at the creature dressed like an Englishman. I don't care if Dean is on friendly terms with him or that he happens to be the least evil demon who could possibly wear the title of King. I don't like this one bit. I like it even less now that I've been left alone with him.

"I don't mean to pry," Crowley begins. "But what's with the water, mate? I did say I was buying, didn't I?"

"I'd rather eat glass than accept anything from a demon," I tell him with a short, cold breath.

Crowley doesn't even begin to look offended by this. In fact, if anything, he almost appears impressed.

"What's your last name, Ben?" he questions curiously. "No, wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess it. Smith? Smallwood? Phillips? No, no," he shakes his head at his own guesses. "Let's see... McDougal? McDonnell? O'Hare?" He pauses as a spark lights up in his eye and a smile spreads across his face. "Braden."

I don't have to reply. My horrorstruck face says it all as he looks at me with glee.

"Ben bloody Braden," he says with certainty. "Bastard son of Lisa Braden, a yoga instructor in Battle Creek, Michigan."

I shoot him a cold but confused stare.

"How...?"

"Don't fret," Crowley assures me, taking a slow, savory sip of his Scotch. "Your mum's not in danger. Scout's honor."

"How do you know that?" I ask him with a low growl and Crowley rolls his eyes.

"I wouldn't be a very good King if I couldn't get inside your head, mate," he tells me. "Even the lowest demon knows how to get inside a human's head."

Like I wasn't already uncomfortable.

"What else do you know?" I press him for answers and he scoffs into his glass.

"You'll have be a lot more specific," he replies. "I'm quite a bit older than you." He pauses to glance me over for the millionth time that evening. "Alright. Because I'm feeling generous, you can ask me one question and I'll answer as truthfully as I can."

I narrow my eyes at him, attempting to determine his sincerity.

"I can ask you anything?" I question skeptically.

"Why not?" he shrugs. "Make it count. I don't mind telling you what I know about you, but I get the feeling you've got your own curiosities about someone else."

He's got a point. I could keep pressing him for details about my own life where I already know every answer and I would, at the end, feeling incredibly creeped out that Crowley knows these things. Or I could gain knowledge about something someone else won't talk about.

"Is it true," I slowly begin, suddenly dying to know the answer to my question yet hesitant to be accepting any kind of offer from a demon. "How Sam Winchester died?"

"You mean Captain Dean still won't talk about Moose?" he returns my question with his own. "It's been almost ten bloody years. You'd think at some point he'd let it go and get on with his life." He pauses to let out a long exhale as his face turns mildly thoughtful. "Did Sam Winchester get blown to smithereens and scattered across the cosmos by Metatron himself?" He gives another pause, this one for dramatic effect. "That is how the story goes, isn't it?"

"That's not fair," I protest.

"Well I wasn't there," Crowley replies defensively. "I didn't witness it with my own eyes. But Dean did."

"How do you know?" I challenge.

"He told me," he replies simply.

For a minute, I'm not sure what I feel. Remorse for how Dean lost his little brother. Anger in the fact Dean was willing to share this information with the King of despair but not me, his new (human) hunting partner. Satisfied that I finally got the answer to a question Dean was unwilling to answer - sort of.

"Interesting choice in questions," Crowley casually comments, lifting his glass to his lips as a thin brunette in a devil costume takes to the stage. "I could have told you things about you that you yourself don't even know."

He might be the first demon I've ever encountered, but I'm not dumb and I'm not playing his game. No matter how badly I want to know what he might know.

Fucking demons.


	10. It's Not A Chupacabra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben learns chupacabra's aren't real, and that the occupational hazards of hunting occasionally include becoming what you hunt.

_Edgewood, New Mexico_

My eyes see words but my brain is too distracted to comprehend their meaning. I've been staring at the same damn web page for close to an hour now and I've retained nothing. Seriously. I know absolutely nothing more about chupacabras now than I did an hour ago.

Fucking demons, man.

"I don't know about this," Dean's voice snaps me back to reality. I blink madly, attempting to moisten my dried-out eyeballs as I glance up from my laptop to Dean who sits on top of a red and yellow Southwest patterned bed spread, flipping through the old journals he carries with him like a preacher carries a bible. The fact that he's read through both of them a thousand times before tonight doesn't stop him from searching the hand scrawled pages for something new.

"Did Garth really say chupacabra?"

I let loose a heavy sigh as I sleepily rub my eyes.

"He said it _sounded_ like a chupacabra," I respond as I stretch my arms.

Dean has been suspicious about this whole case ever since Garth called us up three days ago and asked us to check it out. While there's no denying that something around these parts is drinking goat's blood, the veteran hunter has his doubts about the monster we're supposedly hunting.

"You ever hunt chupacabra before?" he asks as he unscrews the cap of his flask, giving his eye a break from reading.

"No," I admit, shaking my head as I watch him take a long drink.

"Yeah," he says before wiping whiskey from his lips with the sleeve of his white and blue plaid shirt. "Me either."

"Doesn't mean they don't exist," I point out, but the way he shrugs his shoulders tells me he doesn't buy it.

"Maybe," he begins as his face turns thoughtful. "It's just, you'd think I would have seen one by now. Neither my dad or Bobby mentioned a chupacabra to me or wrote about them in their journals. Hell, I don't know of any hunter whose actually seen one." He pauses to take another drink from his flask. "Whattcha got on them so far, anyway?"

"A few things," I lie, pretending like I've really been reading this whole time. I glance back at the glowing screen before me and quickly scan over the words my mind refused to absorb. "The first ever reports came out of Puerto Rico in '95. Most sightings of the creature have come from the Caribbean, Central and South America as well as North America with a few reports coming out of the Philippines and Russia. Descriptions of the creature vary, although they are generally reported to be tall, alien looking creatures. They drink goat or sheep blood, generally leaving three puncture wounds in the neck and they supposedly drain the animal of blood. However, over 300 of alleged chupacabra 'victims' were autopsied by veterinarians who discovered not all of the animal's blood was missing."

"The more you read, the more I'm getting the impression chupacabras are just another Big Foot," Dean tells me with a bored voice. "What do the local reports say?"

"Um..." I shuffle through the police reports we picked up earlier in the day, which had been sitting neatly beside my computer at the motel desk. "No autopsies were performed."

"How much you wanna bet we're dealing with a satanic cult?" Dean speculates.

I flip through reports and photographs, attempting to focus but not quite able.

"What's up with you?" Dean questions and I shake my head.

"Nothing," I lie.

"You didn't let Crowley get to you, did you?"

I remain silent as my eyes pretend to study one of the multiple photographs of a dead goat. It has been bothering me, what Crowley said. It's not necessarily the how he knows things about me that I don't, but the what that bugs me.

"I don't know what he said to you," Dean goes on. "But you can't take anything a demon says personally. They'll say just about anything if they know it'll get to you."

My brows fold into a confused frown as I glimpse back up at Dean.

"I thought you said Crowley wasn't that bad?" I say.

"He's not," Dean nods. "For a demon. But he's still a demon and if there's one thing a demon enjoys as much as destruction, it's messing with someone's head."

Yeah, okay. Fine. But what does Crowley know about me?

"Whatever he said, just let it go," Dean says. "There's a chance he's lying."

"But what if he's not?" I propose.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dean insists. "It's probably nothing."

I try to convince myself Crowley was making a mountain out of a mole hill, but I have a feeling it's going to nag at me for a while.

"Whaddya got?" he asks me, attempting to redirect my focus away from the king demon and back to the case at hand. "Any of the goats have three puncture wounds?"

"Yes and no," I shake my head as I respond, glancing back down at the pictures in my hand. "Puncture wounds yes. But a lot more than three. Something's definitely been sucking on goats. Something familiar..."

I study the picture more closely, looking at the ring of bite marks embedded in the goat's neck. Dean climbs off of his bed and snatches the photograph from my grasp to study it for himself. The way his face drops tells me he knows exactly what did this.

"Now this makes sense," he begins sincerely. "Looks like there's a vamp in town."

While I know I should be able to identify a simple and obvious thing like the mark of a vampire, I can't help but feel a little mad at Dean for not pointing this out earlier.

"You're telling me I've been researching lore on a creature that probably doesn't even exist for the last hour when you could have just looked at the damn picture yourself?" I question, not bothering to mask the annoyance I feel. Dean frowns, clearly unappreciative of my tone.

"I put you on report duty," he firmly reminds me, tossing the picture back. I snatch the photo before it can flutter to the ground, clutching it so hard I wrinkle its smooth surface. "This is what happens when you let yourself get distracted. You're just lucky you only wasted an hour. It could have been a lot worse."

Great. Now I'm pissed and embarrassed. My jaw clenches as color rises to my face and I glance back down at the photograph gripped between my fingers. I really don't want to ask the question that's at the forefront of my mind, but between Crowley, my anger and my embarrassment, my judgment is too clouded for me to formulate the answer.

"Now what?" I quietly ask.

"What do you mean?" Dean returns harshly, clearly not amused by my tone or the time my distracted mind has wasted for the both of us.

"I mean, if there's a vamp in town, it's obviously not going after people," I point out. "If it's not killing anyone, it's not something to hunt, right? So... what do we do?"

"We check it out," Dean says, his temper soothing some. "Track it down, make sure it's diet is purely animal blood. Just because it's not going after people right now doesn't mean it won't."

Right. Obviously.

Operation: Prove Yourself to Dean isn't going well so far.

 _Come on, Ben,_ I psych myself up as we silently collect our vampire slaying gear and prepare for a late night stakeout. _Get your shit together. Forget you even met Crowley and track this sucker like a pro. Make Dean proud._

Wait, what? Make Dean proud? Where did that come from?

\- - - - -

"I'm gonna smell like goat for a week," I complain as I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"Yeah, well, you're more likely to catch a vamp if you smell more like prey than predator," Dean reminds me, his eye scanning the not too distant farm before us with a pair of heavy black binoculars.

"I know," I nod, shifting in my seat as I gaze out the windshield of Dean's parked Impala. "It's still not a pleasant smell."

A full moon illuminates the arid landscape around us, making it easy to spot anything suspicious or abnormal that might wander into view. As I keep a watch for signs of a supernatural humanoid, my mind wanders to Garth, as it usually does this time of the lunar cycle. I hope he's made it to his cell alright, the one he built for himself behind their tavern in an old fall out shelter. I should remember to call him in the morning.

Stifling a yawn, I glance down at the empty cup holders and let loose a small, longing sigh for the coffee I'd love to be drinking right about now. We had to nix the caffeine (and booze) for this stakeout or our efforts to smell like a filthy goat would have been completely fruitless. You never realize how dependent on coffee you become until you're forced to live without it for an evening.

I push my caffeine lust to the back of my mind as I return my gaze to the desert landscape and the goats that sleep under a blanket of stars. Still just a bunch of goats and no sign of vampires. I don't think I've even seen a coyote yet.

I yawn again, this time out of boredom, and glance at Dean. I feel like I should buy him a spyglass. Then again, he'd probably take it the wrong way and kick my ass and I personally like my ass the way it is.

"You want me to use those?" I offer. Dean cocks a brow as he slowly puts the lenses down and turns his head towards me.

"Why?" he asks. "Does it bother you to see a man with one eye using binoculars?"

"N-no," I stammer, realizing I should have just kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the goats. "I was just..." I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find the right, inoffensive words to explain my simple offer. "I didn't mean..."

Dean smirks as he watches my cheeks turn a soft shade of embarrassed.

"Relax," he says. "I was joking."

Oh. Dean made a funny. That's different.

"And no, I don't want you to use the binoculars," he continues as he peers through them once more. "I'm the one missing an eye here. I can use all the help I can get."

Fair enough I guess.

"Looks like we got company," he states. I sit up and search the area he's looking at.

"Where?" I ask, not finding what he sees.

"There," he points as he hands me the binoculars for a better view. "Vampire at ten o'clock."

Looking through the spy gear, I can see who he's talking about. A trim young woman with long, toned legs sneaks around a building with a machete sheathed at her hip. Dressed in shorts, black boots and a black and white plaid button down shirt, she inches through the darkness with a swift silence. Blond hair spills around her shoulders with streaks of black in a reverse highlight fashion. From this distance it's impossible to tell what color her eyes are, but I know they're a bright shade of blue green that can captivate and entrance.

"She's not a vampire," I tell Dean, handing the binoculars back to him. "She's a hunter."

"You know her?" he asks, peering through them again as the woman leaps over the fence.

"Her name's April," I reply as a fond smile finds my lips and my mind wanders. "She's twenty-three. Originally from Salem, Oregon. A gemini and a die hard Mumford and Sons fan. Got into the life after demons possessed her folks when she was sixteen. Her favorite food is pineapple. Her favorite drink is vodka."

"Let me guess," Dean stops me before I can give him too much detail. "You two are 'just friends'?"

"Yes," I grumble, the smile on my face falling at this vocalized fact. "She's got a _boyfriend,_ " I add, emphasizing the word 'boyfriend' with a note of disdain. "I don't know what she sees in him. He's a total douche bag and not a very good hunter if you ask me."

"And you're pretty sure you two are just meant to be?" Dean guesses and I shrug.

"We do kind of have a deep connection," I slowly admit, something that causes Dean to sigh and rub the bridge of his nose between his eyes, as if the subject is giving him a headache. It hits me that the topic is probably one of the last things Dean wants to talk about, well, ever, but especially right now. He at least has the courtesy not to roll his eye just yet.

"I donno," I say with a sigh, babbling on before Dean can tell me to shut it. "She's just perfect, you know? She's smart, funny, a great hunter and beautiful on top of it. I've pretty much been in love with her since I met her. I can't believe she's dating that Ryan ass..."

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Dean says, his eye fixed dead ahead. "Not necessarily because the theatrics of the young and the dramatic don't interest me, but your 'not a vampire just a hunter friend' is sucking on a goat's neck."

" _What!?_ "

I snatch the binoculars from Dean's hand and lift them to my eyes. It doesn't take me long to find April kneeling in the dirt with her lips pressed firmly to the neck of a goat, her hands holding the animal still. Just as Dean said.

"She's not into goats, is she?" Dean questions as I press the binoculars back into his grasp. "I don't want to judge if she is, but..."

"Shut up," I mutter absently as I climb out of the Impala. My mind wheels as I race towards her in an attempt to come up with an excuse for what April seems to be doing. My brain doesn't want to believe what my eyes see, but there's no explanation. None other than the obvious, and it's a nauseating thought.

My pace slows greatly as I hop the fence, my feet finding short, cautious steps versus long, hurried strides. April seems oblivious to my presence, keeping her back turned as she feasts. I gag as I inch closer and discover I have difficulty finding my voice.

"A-April?" I choke past the lump that grows in my throat.

The blond drops the poor animal and spins on her heels, wiping blood from her lips as her eyes grow wide at the sight of me.

"Ben?" she asks, clearly surprised to see me. "What... what are you doing here?"

"I'm... on a case," I reply and her gaze falls to the ground. "Are you... are you what we're hunting?"

"I guess that depends on what you're after," she responds before giving me an inquisitive look. "Who's 'we'?"

Her eyes grow wide as she spies the aging hunter that casually saunters into the situation.

"Winchester," she whispers, taking a frightened step back.

"Chill out, Twilight," Dean assures her. "Your head is safe. For now."

April frowns as she studies him, uncertain of the legend's sincerity.

"What happened?" I have to ask, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact the woman I've been crushing on for the past five years is standing before me with a mouth full of fangs and blood at the corner of her lips.

"Ryan and I were raiding a nest in San Antonio last month," she begins, keeping a wary eye on Dean as she speaks. "We got most of 'em, but one of 'em got me before I could get him. Occupational hazard, I guess."

I'd laugh if it weren't completely horrible.

Now that I think about it, life in general since I teamed up with Dean has been, more or less, horrible. Not everything or every detail, but the lessons I've slowly been learning along the way are, to say the least, crushing. Sobering. Yet, until now, I haven't really truly asked myself what I'm doing here. And what's more heart breaking than seeing the woman I love transformed is the fact that it's taken just that for me to really start questioning my once eager and completely voluntary involvement in this terrible, awful life.

_What am I doing here?_


	11. Heads Will Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben considers vapireism.

_Still Edgewood, New Mexico - Three Days Later_

My dark eyes stare up at the ceiling but I'm so lost in thought they barely notice the imperfect, speckled strokes and smears that could, if I were to turn my imagination on (or eat some psychedelics), resemble an endless amount of creatures, objects and faces. The fingers of my left hand lovingly run themselves through the blond and black hair that belong to April, who sleepily rests her head on my chest. I carefully avoid contact with her skin which, despite the sun kissed hue, has grown frigid to the touch and a painful reminder of what she's become.

Dean's been nice enough to give me time with her. He hasn't even complained once about staying these past three days. If - or, rather, when - he starts moaning about wasting perfectly good time hanging out with a vampire when we could be hunting something more problematic, I'll tell him to move on without me. That I'll catch up somehow. Right now, my place is with April who is, surprisingly, the restless one.

I guess I'd be restless too if I didn't feel well enough to travel and got stuck in some crappy motel in some town between here and there. April swears the transformation isn't agreeing with her "hunter blood" and hasn't been up to the challenge of moving on. Dean, on the other hand, is confident that's simply what it's like to be a vampire.

"Your heart beat is so loud," April whispers but I don't say anything. I'm still trying to accept this, the vampire nestled under my arm and the fact she used to be the object of my affections.

Who am I kidding? She still is. This could still work. She hasn't killed anyone yet. She'd probably be a cheep date, too. If only she'd get rid of Ryan...

Speaking of...

"Where's your boyfriend?" I ask, trying to swallow the bitter taste the name leaves in my mouth.

"He's picking up some... food..." she replies, embarrassed by what "food" now means to her.

"What are you going to do?" I change the subject in an attempt to dismiss the thought of her surviving solely on blood.

"Ryan found a nest up in Denver," April says with a sigh. "They're on a donation only diet. As soon as I stop feeling like crap all the time, we're gonna drive up and join them."

"Ryan's going with you?" I question with a hint of disappointment in my breath.

"I guess so," she says with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"I donno. It's just... he's a human, you know? And a hunter. You really think an entire nest of vamps are going to let him near them?"

I leave out the part where I remind her that he's a flaming douche.

"This doesn't have anything to do with the massive crush you have on me, does it?" she asks.

For a minute, I don't respond. I swallow past the lump in my throat as I slowly sit up, gently brushing April's head away from my chest.

"He's not right for you, April," I speak as my eyes sweep the red shag carpet of her motel room. "Hell, he's not right for anyone."

Seriously. I know I just sound like the jealous Ducky friend over here, but the guy's a jerk. I can't help but hope he gets turned into something himself one of these days so I can hunt him down and chop off his head or put a silver bullet between his eyes.

"Ben..." April begins.

"You know he's bad news," I cut her off, turning my head to look at her. "Has he even offered to let you turn him?"

"What? No," she frowns as she shakes her head. "That's ridiculous. Why would..." She trails off as the realization strikes. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Yes," I whisper sincerely. "I am. I would go Twilight in a heartbeat if it meant I got to be with you."

I would, too. I'd give up the life and the road and my spot in Dean's Impala for her. I'd happily trade all that in for a mouth full of fangs and an incessant hunger for blood if it meant I could spend the rest of my life with her. Granted, if I were to become a vampire, that life could last hundreds of years, but that would probably be the selling point for me since fangs and bloodlust aren't really all that appealing.

"I wish you wouldn't refer to us as 'Twilight'," is how April responds as she folds her arms across her chest. "And I can't turn you, Ben. I can't turn anyone. That's not fair. I don't want this. Why would you?"

"Because I love you," I confess, staring her in the eyes as I tell her something she's already known.

For a really hot second, I'm almost certain she's going to press her lips on mine. That she's finally going to see what we could be together and let herself fall for me the way I fell for her.

And then the damn door opens.

"What's going on in here?"

April squints and puts a hand up to shield her sensitive eyes from the flood of daylight that enters the room between the muscular, brown haired, green eyed man who stands in the doorway. He kicks the door shut with his right foot as he enters the room with a suspicious frown across his brow and a white plastic grocery bag in his hand.

Ryan. He looks like a Jersey Shore Abecrombie & Fitch went to Bonaroo and threw up all over him. He's a shade too orange to have obtained his tan the old fashioned way, and his sneakers are too clean to be hunter's footwear. He wears one of those tacky faux vintage shirts that boasts the name of a nudist camp that probably never existed from a year that predates his own birth, as well as a pair of kaki colored shorts and rasta colored sweat bands.

As a self proclaimed "good guy", the frustration is never ending that jerks like him have been outwardly expressing their inner douche for decades and girls still flock to them.

"Just talking," April calmly replies as Ryan eyes me with jealousy, which is the typical look I receive from him. "You remember Ben, don't you?"

"Sure," Ryan grumbles as he sets the bag on the table and begins extracting white styrofoam take-out boxes from inside.

"Where'd you go?" April asks, watching him dig out food boxes.

"Had to go to Albuquerque," he says. "The hospital here doesn't have a huge supply."

"So... did you get it?" she questions with a hungry look in her eye. Ryan pauses in his task and hangs his head.

"Shit," he mutters with a long sigh, turning to give April a set of big puppy eyes. "I'm sorry, Ape. I stopped at a bar on the way back, I think I left the bags there."

April fumes. Her nostrils flare, her cheeks grow red with rage and her pupils dilate so much they almost swallow her blue-green iris's. She's not just angry. She's hungry.

"You smell like another woman," she states, sniffing the air.

Me, all I can smell is the stench of too much body spray mixed in with the skunky smell of weed. But I wouldn't be surprised if there were undertones of another female's perfume on his skin, and if anyone can smell it right now, it would be April.

"I'm gonna go," I softly announce, rising from the bed. "Um... call me?"

April doesn't look at me. The way she glares at Ryan would indicate she didn't hear me at all. So I just slowly back towards the door and let myself out of the room. That's one domestic dispute I don't wanna see.

I walk the mile and a half back to the motel where Dean and I are currently residing, all the while wondering and wishing. Maybe Dean would let me borrow the Impala for a couple of hours. I could go get her some blood and bring it to her. By then, maybe she'd have kicked Ryan to the curb and we could at least have one night together.

I shouldn't be thinking these things. I'm a hunter for Christ's sake. It's one thing to let a vampire walk. It's quite another to seriously contemplate actually stealing blood from a hospital to feed one. Or, worse, seriously consider becoming one.

 _Just stop_ , I tell myself as I approach the door to our room. _Don't get your hopes up._

_Wait, no. That's not a good thing to hope for. Think about puppies. Or the new Marvel movie. Yeah, think about that. It's gonna be awesome..._

Dean's voice drifts through the door and I pause to listen before intruding.

"Cas?" I hear him speak. "You got your ears on, Cas? Shit, I don't know if you're even really out there."

Huh. Looks like I'm not the only one Crowley got to.

"Look, Cas," he goes on after a moment of silence. "If you are out there, if you're still alive, I just want to say..." Pause. "I forgive you, Cas. Okay? I forgive you for abandoning me. I forgive you for letting me try to kill myself. You probably saw that, with the griffin in Jersey."

I feel kind of bad, eves dropping on a private prayer like this. At the same time, despite the morbid content, it's a little, well, nice to know Dean's not this empty, emotionless robot. It's kind of a bummer knowing he faced off with a griffin as a suicide attempt, but, at this point, I probably should have guessed as much.

"I lost an eye, you know?" Dean goes on. "But I forgive you for not being there. Okay, Cas? Do you hear me? I forgive you. I just... I just want to see you again. Make sure you're alive. It... it would mean a lot if you could just show me I'm not really..." Pause. "... alone."

I swallow hard as I digest Dean's desperate prayer. While I've slowly been learning who Dean really is, it never occurred to me he actually felt much of anything before. He hides it well and, lets be honest, with the amount he drinks I guess I assumed he was just constantly numb. I never really stopped to think there might be a reason he's been trying to numb himself.

Slowly I make my entrance into the motel room. Dean sits at the edge of his bed with his flask held loosely in his hands. At a quick glance I can see his eye water with tears he's too proud to spill.

"Hey," I quietly say as he turns away, quickly unscrewing the cap of his container.

"How's your friend?" Dean asks before lifting the object to his lips.

"She's... you know," I say with a shrug. "Dealing."

I pause to ponder my next words. Part of me wants to comfort Dean, tell him he's not alone now. He's got me and I'm (probably) not going anywhere. The other part of me, the logical part, tells me it would be a bad idea to let him know I just listened in on a private, one-way conversation between him and an angel who may or may not be alive.

"Thanks for hanging out here awhile," I say instead. "I really appreciate you letting me spend some time with April."

Dean scoffs as he puts his flask down and looks back to me, his eye now completely dry.

"I'm not hanging out here for you," he tells me simply with a flat tone. "I'm doing my job."

"What do you mean?" I have to ask, not sure exactly what his job is here at this point.

"Look," Dean says with a short sigh. "I know she's a hunter and you think she's going to keep her nose clean. And I'm willing to wait it out and see if you're right. But she's also a freshly made vampire, and it's a hell of a lot harder to control what instinct is telling you if you're not used to dealing with it."

"How would you know?" I challenge as Dean takes another sip from his flask.

"Because I was a vampire once," he easily shares, as if it were no big deal.

"What!?" I cry. "How are you...?"

"How am I not now?" he finishes. "There's a cure."

"And you just thought you'd just keep that to yourself?" I question angrily.

"It only works if the vamp hasn't fed," Dean tells me with a sigh. "She's obviously already fed. Even if we hadn't seen it, there's no way she'd be able to resist for that long. I was a vampire for a day and I barely made it."

The way he looks at me as he tells me this, it's like he feels guilty about something. He opens his mouth to continue but, at the last second, decides to take another drink instead.

"So you're just sitting here waiting for her to slip up?" I question and he shrugs.

"If that's how you want to see it, then yeah," he says. "I guess I am."

"That's just... peachy," I mutter.

"If it makes you feel better, it's not like I'm rooting for her to go full Dracula," Dean attempts to reassure me. "It's my - no, it's _our_ \- responsibility to make sure that doesn't happen."

"She won't," I tell him with an unwavering confidence. "She's got a place lined up. A nest of vamps on a strict donation-only diet. She'll be gone before you know it."

"Good," Dean nods. "I hope she makes it. But as long as she's in town, so are we."

\- - - - -

I can't sleep. April never called me. She didn't even answer me when I tried calling her. I'm starting to worry about her.

I'm also a little worried about Dean. Not just what he might do to her if she does slip, but him in general. Whenever I manage to get April off my mind, I can't help but recall the confession he made in his prayer. About him going up against the griffin. It makes me wonder how many monsters he's gone up against in hopes that he ultimately looses. And is he still trying to loose, even though he's not alone anymore?

I realize I'm not meant to sleep tonight when a call comes through over the police scanner set on the night stand between my bed and Dean's.

"Dispatch, this is officer Burton," a staticy voice cuts through the silence. "We've got a one-eight-seven down at Guyer's Liquor. Make that a double one-eight-seven. Requesting ambulance and back-up. Over."

"Ten-four, officer," a woman responds as Dean stirs under his covers and I sit up. "Is suspect in custody? Over."

"Suspect has yet to be identified," the police officer responds. "Over."

"Is the suspect armed? Over."

Dean slowly sits up, dangling his legs over the side of the bed as he sleepily scratches his head and carefully listens.

"I... I don't know," the officer replies, completely dropping his official-sounding tone. "It looks like these boys were bit by... I don't know what. Over."

My heart sinks and my stomach drops. Dean gives me a sorrowful look before rising to his feet to grab his jeans and a pair of socks.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he quietly attempts to comfort me. "I really did hope she'd pull through."

I want to believe this wasn't her. That maybe she turned Ryan and he's the one who killed the guys down at the liquor store. That she's still strong and I get to decapitate an asshole. I want more than anything to believe she's still in her motel room or at the goat farm, innocently drinking animal blood while the other guy is on a rampage. But I just can't, because I know better and, honestly, my luck's not all that great.

Dean and I swing by the liquor store first to confirm the bite marks do, in fact, belong to a vampire. A third victim who was fortunate enough to survive gives us a description of his assailant which, of course, accurately paints us a vivid picture of my poor April, right down to what she was wearing when I left her motel earlier. We swing by her room to see if she's there, even though we both know she's too smart to have returned to the first place two hunters would go looking for her.

Sure enough, the room is dark and empty when we arrive. Empty, save for the cold body that used to belong to Ryan, which lays stiff on the red shag carpet only a foot or so away from the bed. Given his body temperature and the cold, untouched take-out food on the table, April killed him shortly after I left.

"Damn it," Dean sighs when he sees the first of three bodies my friend has made.

"Don't feel too bad for him," I tell Dean, who shoots me an angry look.

"I don't care if you didn't like the guy," he barks. "He didn't deserve to die. Not like this."

I could argue that Dean didn't know him, but he's probably right. Jerk or not, it's seldom a person actually deserves a death sentence.

 _Well, you got your wish, Ben_ , I bitterly think as I stroll to the parking lot. _April's single. And Dean's going to make you cut her head off._ "tell Dean! Head north and save anyone who might cross April's path before she can get there! Do your fucking job!" But I don't, because I want her to live a nice, long, unnatural undead life. Even if that means I'll never see her again.

"Albuquerque's the closest city," Dean thinks out loud, agitated we managed to let one little vampire slip through our fingers. "It's where I'd go if I was trying to shake a couple of hunters."

I know she's headed north, but I don't bother to correct Dean. If we go south, she'll get a good head start and have time to clean up her act.

My plans go to hell when we reach our motel room to pack up. Sitting on my bed in the dark is April, quietly waiting for us. Even in the cover of night I can see the blood smeared across her face, coating her lips. As I inch closer, I can see the tears that streak down her cheeks and, for some reason, it makes me happy because seeing her cry confirms that she's not a monster. Not really.

"Ben..." Dean quietly warns, attempting to defer me from getting too close to her.

"It's fine," I whisper back as I stride towards the vampire. "April?"

"Hey, Ben," she breathes, attempting a small smile. "Sorry I didn't call."

"It's okay," I assure her, inching carefully towards her. "What... what happened?"

"What happened?" Dean echoes shortly. "She bled three people dry, that's what happened."

"Dean..." I begin, but she cuts me off.

"It's okay, Ben," she gently tells me. "He's right. That was me. I did that."

"You shouldn't have come here, April," I point out as I sit beside her.

"I had to," she tells me. "I had no other choice."

"You could have ran," I point out and she shakes her head, giving Dean a quick glance.

"No," she insists. "I can't run from what I am. And god knows I can't run from a Winchester."

My heart begins to break as my stomach leaps into my throat once I realize exactly why she came here. Part of me was hoping she was seeking help and, to some extent, I'm not wrong. But she's not looking for help the way a drug addict looks for help and it's not her she wants us to help. It's everyone else she's trying to save.

"April, you can't... I can't..." I shake my head, my words tripping over my tongue.

"You have to, Ben," she tells me as she presses her machete into my hands.

"No," I shake my head. "I don't."

"What other options do we have?" she demands to know.

"You could go live with Garth," I spew the first idea that comes to mind. "He can teach you how live without..."

Without what? Blood? She's a fucking vampire.

"Oh, Ben," April gives me a sad, half smile as she places a tender hand on my shoulder. "Garth's a wolf, not a fang. We're two completely different monsters. He couldn't teach me anything."

I hate how right she is.

"Please, Ben," she pleads again when I remain silent, helping my fingers close around the cool hilt of her own blade. "I can't do this myself and I can't live like this. You don't know what it's like. I couldn't stop myself and I can't promise I'll never do it again."

"I could help you..." I attempt one last plea, something she rejects with a simple shake of her head. My heart grows heavy as the tears well in my eyes and my mind spins.

And then she does something completely unexpected. She leans in and places a long, tender kiss on my lips.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," she apologizes, resting her cold forehead on mine as she speaks.

"April, I can't..." I begin before I choke on my own words.

"I'll do it," Dean speaks up. I'd almost forgotten he was there.

April turns to look at him and gives him a small smile.

"Thanks, Mr. Winchester," she says.

"It's Dean," he kindly corrects her as he takes a firm grasp of his own machete.

"Dean," she repeats with a small smile before looking to me one more time. "Bye, Ben."

Slowly, she rises to her feet and lets a long, hard sigh pass her lips as she strides towards the older hunter. I remain frozen to my seat as a single tear slips from my right eye and slides down my cheek.

"Ready?" Dean gently asks as she exhales one last time.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she nods, squeezing her eyes shut. I watch Dean bring his blade back to gain the right inertia to slice through bone and I want to throw up.

"No!" I cry, jumping to my feet. Dean pauses as April turns to face me. "I'll do it."

"Thank you," she whispers as Dean slowly lowers his blade and takes a step back. I wipe the sweat from my palms to gain a better grip of April's weapon before I can mimic Dean's own motions, drawing it back so the edge glistens just behind my head.

"I love you," I tell her.

"I know," she whispers sadly. "I love you too, Ben."

Before I can change my mind and subject April to the torture of waiting to die, I swing the blade with a clean, fluid motion. Within a single second, her head falls to the floor, followed shortly by the rest of her. Despite the fact I knew it was going to happen, a loud gasp escapes my throat as a few more tears break free.

"I'm sorry, Ben," Dean offers sincere condolences, gently placing a hand on my shoulder as he speaks. He pauses to allow this all sink in. "Look, man. I'd like to give you a minute but... you know. Dead chick on the motel floor."

"Yeah," I nod, wiping the salty tears from my face. "Right."

Dean strips his own bed of its sheets and silently lays it over April's lifeless body.

"She didn't love me," I share with him, not quite ready to help him in this gory task. "Not the way I loved her."

"So?" Dean questions as he works. "She still loved you. Isn't that what matters?"

"Yeah," I whisper as April's blade falls from my fingers. "I guess it is."


	12. Conversations With Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben worries about the afterlife.

_Between Here & There_

I'm having a hard time adjusting to life after April. It's not really the fact that I had to let go of the girl I loved that I have a hard time coming to terms with. In my line of work, I've killed a lot of things, but never once was it a familiar face. Up until last week, I'd never had to send someone I actually knew packing to... well, I don't know where monsters go when they die, but there. And it sucks that she was the one I had to do it to.

"Where do monsters go when they die?" I ask Dean who looks away from the road long enough to give me a curious look.

"You should stop thinking about April," he advises me instead of supplying me with a response. "It's distracting you. Which is fine for now, but I'm not going to be the one who has to break it to your mom that a monster ate your face because you couldn't stop thinking about a dead vampire. Besides, you don't really want to know."

"So you do know," I say and Dean rolls his eye.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," he repeats with a slight shudder.

"Come on," I urge him to share. "At least give me a hint. Will I ever see her again? When I die, I mean."

"Maybe," he replies with a short shrug. "For your sake you'd better hope not."

"Why?" I press. "Is it... Hell?"

"No," Dean shakes his head. "It is next door though."

"Come on," I pester, annoyed he seems to think I can't handle the reality of where I've been sending monsters these past seven years. "I'm a big boy, I can handle the truth."

Dean extracts his flask from his inner pocket and, for a minute, I think he's just going to let me wonder. He takes a quick sip, maintaining his focus on the road before us as he does. I sigh.

"There are three places someone can go when they die," Dean begins at last. "The good go to Heaven. The bad go to Hell, and the ugly... they go to Purgatory."

I gulp as a culpable pain settles in the pit of my stomach. I sent April to Purgatory?

"What about ghosts?" I ask, attempting to take my mind off my guilty conscience.

"They're not technically monsters," Dean points out. "So Heaven. Or Hell."

"So all monsters just get a one-way ticket to Purgatory when they die?" I attempt to clarify. Dean nods as he takes another drink from his flask before putting it away.

"Yep," he confirms.

"Even vampires?"

"Especially vampires."

"But... but they were people once," I argue. "They weren't born monsters."

"Hey, I don't make the rules," Dean puts his hands up defensively. "I just know where the three doors to the afterlives go."

"How do you know for sure?" I challenge and Dean groans.

"Because," he replies with a sullen tone. "I've been there."

"Where?" I question. "Purgatory?"

"Purgatory," he lists. "Hell. Apparently I've been to Heaven multiple times but I only remember the last trip."

Now that he mentions it, I do remember one of the legends about Dean is that he doesn't stay dead. Come to think of it, I had heard he crawled out of Hell just to stop the Apocalypse. I guess I had filed those away under "myth" before I even met him, based on the sheer ridiculousness of them.

I have so many questions now, but I know I'll be lucky to get an answer to any of them.

"How did you get out of Hell?" I ask one anyway. His brows crease as a memory surfaces at the forefront of his mind. He reaches for his flask and takes a long, hard pull.

"An angel pulled me out," he replies. He doesn't have to tell me which one. The way he stares beyond the road, the way he takes desperate gulps from his flask, I know it was Castiel.

"How'd you end up in the pit?" I ask, watching him tuck the silver object back into his jacket.

"I sold my soul," he grumbles.

I can't believe he's actually answering me. It's taken me months to get much of anything out of him. Does he finally feel comfortable with me sitting where I know Sam once sat?

"Why?" I press my luck.

"You hear from Garth lately?" he swiftly changes the subject, signaling he's done with my game.

Shit. I got so distracted when I found out April was a vampire, I forgot to call him.

I dig my phone out of my jean's pocket and wordlessly dial the Tavern's number.

"Ben, buddy," Garth answers with enthusiasm. "What's up? I was starting to worry a chupacabra switched to long pig."

"Hey, Garth," I say. "Nope, we're fine. It, uh... it turned out to be a vampire. Dean doesn't think chupacabra's exist."

"Either way, it's good to know you're still on your feet. I'm glad you called, man. I got a grizzly case up in Montana. You want it?"

"Grizzly?" I echo in the form of a question. "Like... the bear?"

"What? No," Garth replies and I know he finds my last question amusingly absurd. "Well, they are blaming a grizzly, but I meant grizzly the adjective. You know, gruesome."

"I think grizzly the adjective actually means 'gray'," I correct my ex-dentist, ex-hunter, werewolf/innkeeper friend. "Devoid of hue."

"Well, it is dark," Garth says. "Somethin's eatin' folks up near Whitefish."

I take the blue, ball-point pen out of my pocket and make notes on the palm of my hand as Garth supplies me with information.

"Whitefish," I repeat as I write the town's name across calluses. "That's up in the mountains, right?"

"Yep," Garth confirms. "Near Glacier."

"You think it's a windego?" I question.

"Sounds like a windego's M.O.," Garth agrees. "Seems like the attacks are a little close to civilization for a windego though. You guys'll have to do a little research on this one."

"No problem," I promise. "We're on it, man."

"I knew I could count on you," Garth says. "How's the hunting trail with Dean?"

"It's... you know..." I glance at the driver, not sure if he can hear the other end of the conversation or not. "A learning experience."

"I guess that's one way to put it," Garth says with a small laugh. "Take care, alright? And give a guy a call when you gank this next monster, huh?"

"Sure, Garth," I promise. "I'll talk to you later."

Dean gives me an expectant look as I end the call, waiting for me to share the little information I've just gathered.

"Whitefish, huh?" he says, having overhead at least part of the conversation.

"I guess so," I nod.

"I hear you say windego?" he questions.

"You did," I nod. "Something's eating people."

"Sounds like a windego," Dean nods. "What'd Garth say?"

"He said it could be," I reply. "But the attacks seem to be a little close to town for that. You know of anything else that actually eats people?"

Dean ponders this, but not for long.

"Rugaru," he says.

"Ruga-what?" I say with a skeptical look.

"Rugaru," Dean repeats.

"That sounds made up," I tell him flatly. "Or like something Scooby-Doo would say."

"Well it's not," Dean solemnly assures me. "They're nasty. Super strong, too. It's a good thing you're with me. Hunting one on your own is basically suicide."

"Says the guy who went up against a griffin solo," I mutter before I can think anything of it. Dean frowns.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he challenges as I silently beat myself up.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid...

"What?" is what comes out of my mouth first in an attempt to stall for the rest of a reason to formulate. "I'm just agreeing that it's a good thing that you're with me, but I bet you could probably take it on yourself and win."

Did that sound as sincere out loud as it did in my head?

The look Dean gives me is suspicious but, for now, he's going to buy it. Or, at the very least, let it go.

"Anyway," he dismisses the last minute to return to the original conversation. "There's a cabin up there we can stay in."

"Awesome," I say, relieved he's temporarily bought my excuse. "I could use a break from the motel life."

\- - - - -

_Whitefish, Montana_

"This is not what I had in mind when you said cabin."

My eyes sweep the interior of our lodgings with an extreme lack of enthusiasm. It's cold, drafty and dusty would be putting it mildly. A layer of leaves six inches deep have collected along the floor, nearly wall to wall like some kind of decaying foliage carpet, and the roof is a good rainstorm away from completely collapsing. Half the windows are shattered. The other half are so grimy it's nearly impossible to tell if it's day or night, or what even sits in the world just beyond.

"It's been a while since I've been up here," Dean admits, clearly nowhere near as disgusted as I am.

"How long?" I ask.

"Donno," he shrugs. "Pretty sure I had both my eyes though."

"Great," I mutter sarcastically as Dean shuffles past me with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"It's not that bad," he claims. "There's a broom around here somewhere. All it needs is a little sweep. Maybe a little TLC on the fuse box."

"Fine," I grumble, shaking my own bag from my shoulder which I cautiously place on a rickety looking table. "But I find anything bigger than a mouse living in here, I'm sleeping in the Impala."

"Don't be such a baby," Dean rolls his eye. "You're a hunter for crying out loud."

"Doesn't make me any less anti-rabies," I point out as I search for a broom or a mop or anything really that could help me remove the forest floor from the cabin. "Who owns this dump, anyway?"

"Hunter named Rufus," Dean replies. "He died... shit, I don't remember how long ago."

"Back when you had both of your eyes?" I guess.

"There abouts, yeah," Dean nods, looking over a tattered and half eaten couch. "I wouldn't sit on that."

"How is this place still here?" I ask. "If he died ten, fifteen years ago, how is this place still standing in Rufus's name? That doesn't make sense."

"Our lives don't make a hell of a lot of sense, do they?" Dean replies as he gives the place a solid walkthrough. "Abandoned houses have to come from somewhere, don't they? Anyway, I never said the property was still in Rufus's name."

"Who's house is it, then?" I wonder. "And why are we seriously still contemplating staying here?"

"I have no idea who owns the property now," Dean casually confesses. "And it's a free roof in just about the perfect neck of the woods."

"For what?"

"All the vics. They were munched on not too far from here."

"You're thinking about luring whatever's out there to us?" I half state, half question.

"Yahtzee," the older hunter replies, opening a closet door next to the kitchen. He extracts a broom and, when he tosses it to me, I can see at least half of the bristles have either fallen off or been chewed off. "Sweep some of this crap up. We've got some research to do and we're running out of daylight."

Dean and I set about making the place semi-livable, allowing a thick silence to fill the dilapidated structure. As I sweep the endless amount of leaves, dust and cobwebs from the cabin's wooden floors, I think about April. A few fond memories come to mind, but mostly I think about where I sent her when I separated her head from her shoulders. I'd like to think God changed his mind on where she'd end up after the hunter's funeral we gave her, but it's an unlikely prospect. From what I've heard, God abandoned us a long time ago and does nothing to rectify a good soul going to an awful place like Purgatory.

Wait a minute. If all monsters go to Purgatory...

"Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean replies without looking up from his own task of removing weapons from his duffel bag, all of which he places on the less than sturdy table.

"How sure are you that all monsters end up in Purgatory?"

"Pretty damn sure," he replies, carefully testing the edge of a long blade.

"Even the good ones?" I question with a hint of hope laced somewhere deep in my voice.

"Yep," he says as he closely eyes a pistol.

"So... when Garth dies..."

"I know it's not fair," Dean cuts me off, glancing over to me as he speaks. "But them's the breaks. It's where Garth'll go. It's where April went and, if you're not careful, it's where you'll end up too."

"I guess it's a good thing April wouldn't turn me," I mutter to myself, something that wasn't meant to be heard by Dean. Surprise! He does.

"What?" he half asks, half barks as his brows fold. "No. Hell no. Never actually _let_ something turn you. That's one of the top five rules of hunting. Hell, that's a rule for life in general. Why in God's name would you let her turn you?"

"Maybe you'd understand if you'd ever actually been in love," I mutter, pretending to sweep the spot I've been "sweeping" for the last five minutes.

"Ooh, I see," Dean says, laying his gun on the table with a heavy thud. "First of all, not that it's any of your business, but I have actually been there. I'm forty-fucking-five years old. You think a guy can live this long without feeling that at least once? Second, take it from me when I say you cannot change for anyone. Especially a chick." He shakes his head as he retrieves the flask from his jacket pocket. "Letting a vampire turn you for a broad," he mutters. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Hearing it come from Dean, I guess my idea to let April turn me was really dumb. It sounds even worse now that I know what eventually happens to every monster ever made. But what really gets me about his little rant isn't about my dumb ass seriously considering going fang for a woman. To me, Dean's always been this hard, cold hunter. He's spent his entire life on the road and if the last few months with him have been any indication as to what he's like, I guess I assumed he was too busy and too closed off to experience much beyond a one night stand. It's weird hearing that, once upon a time, he had something normal for a fleeting moment.

"What'd you do?" I ask, actually really curious to find out what dumb thing Dean did for a girl. Dean maintains his frown, but it becomes more pained as the memories are forced to appear before him.

"I pretended like I could leave the life," he reluctantly shares. "I pretended like I could just walk away and not be a hunter. And it was good for a while. Me, her, her kid. We were a family for a little bit, because I selfishly thought I could have something like that. But I could only pretend to be Mr. Suburbia for so long. Eventually the life caught up to me and it almost got them killed."

"What happened?" I gently ask.

"A few djinn," he quietly responds. "A vampire. Demons." Pause. "Take it from me, Ben. It's not worth changing yourself for someone else. Because eventually the truth comes out and you're not just hurting yourself, your hurting everyone involved."

I watch as Dean tilts his flask upside-down, draining the last of his whiskey from the canteen.

"What was her name?" I lay out one last question.

I'm not asking just for curiosity's sake. Ever since Dean's desperate plea to Cas and his sorrowful reveal of absolute loneliness, I've been trying to think of ways to help him see that he's not, in fact, alone. And I think - or, rather, I hope - that by getting him to actually share with me the past that clearly still pains him, he'll slowly realize he's not as alone as he thinks he is.

"Lisa," he tells me at last.

"That's my mom's name," I share with him as he looks away.

"Oh?" he says, his voice distant as he attempts to busy himself with his weapons. With his back turned to me, he lets out a long, heavy sigh and, for a moment, I think about putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going on a supply run," he tells me, digging his car keys from his jeans pocket as he swiftly pushes past me.

As quickly and as easily as he opened up, he shut himself back down.

At least I managed to crack him a little. I like to think it helped. I know it helped me forget April and how guilty I'll probably always feel for sending her to Purgatory.

Except now that I'm all alone, that's all I can think about again. Damn it all.


	13. Rugaru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets distracted in the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Whitefish, Montana - One Night Later_

Fire. That's how you kill a rugaru. It's also how you kill a windigo. Hell, if this thing turns out to be just a rogue bear with the munchies, I'd be willing to wager the family farm fire would take care of that problem too. The amount of literal fire power we're currently stocked with, we could set a whole family of grizzlies ablaze.

Not that I'd set a family of bears on fire. My mom used to read me these books when I was a kid, maybe yours did too. The Berenstain Bears. After that, no way could I kill a family of grizzlies. Unless, of course, they were eating people.

I wonder where bears go when they die?

"Hey, Dean."

The cabin is dark, save for the sole lamp that glows a soft, electric blue in the center of what used to be a kitchen. A hole in the roof provides a bit of starlight and my phone offers the occasional extra visual aid, but other than that, the cabin is pretty well consumed by night. Even still, I can see Dean roll his green eye as he sips whiskey from his seat across the table.

"What?" he grumbles in a low tone, clearly irritated by my constant barrage of questions.

"Where do you think bears go when they die?"

"Really?" he groans, shooting me an annoyed expression.

"What about rugarus? Do they go to Purgatory?"

"Jesus Christ," Dean mutters between clenched teeth as he runs a hand down his face. "Yes. Rugarus go to Purgatory. And wraiths. And shape shifters, and ghouls and every other mother fucking monster on this planet."

"What about gods?"

Dean glares at me, more than bothered by my consistent blathering. After a few moments of silence, however, his hard expression falls into mild thought.

"I'm not actually sure about gods," he slowly admits. "What's with you, anyway? You've been a chatty Cathy all damn day. More so than usual, anyway."

"Sorry," I mutter an apology. "I'm just... if I stop talking, I start thinking about April."

"Well knock it off," Dean instructs me. "It's distracting and we can't afford a slip up here."

"What else should I think about?"

"Rugarus, Ben," he groans. "You should be thinking about rugarus."

Right. The thing we're waiting for. After a little research, Dean concluded our monster de jour has to be rugaru since windigos usually drag their victims off. Whatever's in Whitefish is just eating people.

We've been sitting in this cabin for at least three hours, waiting for the damn thing to show up. Each of us clutch what could only be classified as a homemade flame-thrower - fashioned from portable butane tanks and blowtorch nozzles - and a silver zippo. We each wear a hunter's knife at our hip and carry a pistol in our jacket pockets, just in case. Dean even moved the Impala a safe distance from the ramshackle abode in case monster isn't the only thing we end up igniting tonight. We're prepared. We're ready. All we're missing now is the rugaru.

I look up and out the hole in the roof, taking in the stars that glisten through the mountain forest. I wonder if there are stars in Purgatory?

I know that I technically did the right thing, killing April. She was right, she had to go and I was the one who had to send her away. Still, every time I think about her, this knot at the pit of my stomach tightens. It makes me a little sick knowing where she ended up. It would even if I had let Dean do it for me.

Then again, would Hell really be a better place to end up?

It's not fair, April going to Purgatory. She was a good person. She saved people and didn't ask for anything in return. She was in the middle of saving people the moment her soul was condemned to that wretched place and she only existed as a "monster" for a single month. Okay, yes, she killed a few people, but that wasn't her fault. That wasn't her. It's not fair she had to go to Purgatory.

_Where is God?_

Does it even matter what I'm doing? Life's not fair, everybody knows that. Why does the afterlife have to be so unfair, too?

Dean hits me hard on the arm and I realize he's been talking to me.

"What?" I blink and he rolls his eye.

"Get your head in the game, man," he harshly instructs me. "I'm not kidding. We cannot afford any fuck ups here, you got that?"

"Yes sir," I reply as I salute him, a gesture that makes him frown.

"This isn't a game," he growls. "Now get your head out of your ass or go sit in the car." He pauses to let out a long sigh in an effort to ease his temper. "We've got company, and I don't think it's the natural kind."

"Good," I say, rising to my feet. "I only hunt the supernatural kind."

"I swear to god..." I hear Dean mutter under his breath, shaking his head. "You check the back. I'll check out front."

Silently I do as I'm told. I tiptoe to the back of the cabin and cautiously peer through one of the shattered windows. Clear to the left. Clear to the right. No monster. No nothing, actually.

I glance back at Dean who cautiously stands less than a foot beyond the front door. He glances left, then right. Just when I think he's about to report a false alarm, he freezes. Even in the dark I can tell his ears have picked up something his eye did not.

"Shit," he mutters as he hangs his head and gradually lifts the butane tank clutched in his right hand. His left hand slowly flicks his zippo open as he prepares to light his torch at the drop of a hat.

But he's too late. From his left, it comes in swinging and knocks Dean to the ground with a single swoop. A monster who, from where I'm standing, looks just like a pale, dark haired man.

The man - or monster, rather - sniffs the air before turning to look at me. A low, vicious growl escapes his throat as his lips curl back in a snarl that exposes a mouth full of jagged teeth that seems pretty standard amongst many supernatural creatures. And then he smiles.

My brain screams at my legs to run, but my eyes see no place to go. The only way out is currently being blocked by a rugaru. Which, really, is something I should be focusing on fighting, not trying to run from. I'm a hunter for God's sake.

The rugaru pushes through the threshold of the door at a swift pace that seems almost impossible, heading straight for me. I flick my zippo to ignite my torch. When nothing happens beyond the small, yellow flame on my lighter, a wave of nausea washes over me.

Of course it's not going to light. I never cranked the butane on. There's not a single drop of gas emitting from my tank. And, given how quickly the creature descends upon me, there's no time to rectify this oversight.

So I throw the tank at him. I don't know why, but I do. I replace my lighter with the pistol, getting just enough time to fire off a single, desperate shot that seemingly completely misses the monster.

Before I can blink, I'm laying on the floor with a splitting headache. My arms are pinned down with such a force it feels like they're going to break through the wooden slats beneath me. Beyond the stars that explode across my field of vision, I can see the rugaru who sits on my chest. He snarls as he snaps his teeth, leaning closer and closer with each passing second. Like he's going to eat my face.

Shit. He _is_ going to eat my face.

I attempt to move my arms, but it's no use. Dean wasn't kidding when he said these things were strong. I flail my legs, attempt to sit up. I do anything I can think of to get this bastard to at least loose his balance, but he doesn't flinch. He's not just strong as hell, he's as heavy as a boulder.

It's getting hard to breathe.

The rugaru leans in close, nearly pressing his nose to my face. It's now that I can see his red eyes and the dark veins that run just beneath his pale, wormy and leathery flesh.

This is the worst possible thing to see before I die.

I wonder where my reaper will take me? Was I a good enough boy to get into heaven? Did I sin just the right amount of times to get a one-way ticket to Hell? Or do I have too much unfinished business and I'll end up roaming between the veil for a hundred years until I get angry and vengeful and another hunter has to give me the final send off?

The rugaru lets out a wild hiss as his jaws open so wide they almost unhinge. He leans in to take a nice big chuck out of my throat...

Adios, cruel world.

The sound of a single gunshot rings out. The rugaru hisses again, but this time not because he's about to devour my flesh, but because he's been shot in the shoulder. A second shot rings out as a bullet enters the monster's neck. A third penetrates his arm.

The creature hisses angrily as his head snaps up and his gaze falls to the figure standing in the doorway. Dean. He aims his pistol and squeezes the trigger, sending a bullet right into the monster's skull. Which really just pisses the thing off even more.

Luckily for me, it also distracts him.

The creature scrambles off my chest, forgetting me almost entirely as he lets loose an intimidating roar and advances on Dean. My hands fly to my throat to check the extent of the damage. Nothing but solid, unbroken flesh. He didn't bite me.

_Oh, thank God. Thank Odin. Thank Artemis and Zeus and Ra and every god that ever existed. But, above all, thank Dean Winchester._

My heart races within my chest and my limbs, though finally free to wave around and stand and hold weapons, are numb from shock. For now, I find myself incapable of doing much beyond watching the rugaru rush the one-eyed hunter at full speed.

Dean is, of course, completely ready for the creature. He drops his gun and waits for the perfect moment. Waits for the flesh-eating monster to get close enough to him. And, when that perfect moment arrives, Dean lights his torch.

The rugaru walks right into the flames. He was moving too fast to avoid it. He screams and cries, a sound almost more chilling than having his red eyes stare coldly into yours mere inches from your own face. The rugaru falls to the ground with a sickening thud just outside the cabin and begins to roll, but it's no use. Dean's there with his fire aimed directly at him, and that's where he keeps the blaze until the monster falls silent and still.

Gradually my body regains enough mobility and sensation for me to climb back to my feet. I collect my fallen gun as I amble with a slight limp towards the doorway where I pause to watch Dean extinguish his torch. I eye the monster that smolders at his feet, burned to a nice, even black crisp.

I should feel disappointed in myself for my epic fail, and I kind of do. This was about the last thing I wanted Dean to see and it probably set me back a bit as far as proving myself as a hunter. But holy shit, I'm alive. Dean saved my bacon and that's honestly all that really matters to me at the moment.

"So..." I begin once we're positive the monster is long gone from this world. "That's a rugaru, huh?"

It happens almost as quickly as the creature had pinned me to the floor. Dean's got me shoved up against the cabin wall with a fury in his face I find equally as terrifying as having a rugaru sitting on your chest.

" _What did I tell you?!_ " he rages with a bark.

I open my mouth to make what would probably be a smart-ass remark, something like "to think about rugarus", but I think better of it. Because right now I'm almost positive Dean's going to rip my head off.

"No fuck ups," he loudly reminds me. "I told you to pull your head out of your ass and not to fuck up."

Technically he told me we can't afford fuck ups, but now doesn't seem like a good time to point that out.

"You almost got yourself killed in there," he states, backing off just a smidgen. As he moves a step away, I can see the blood glistening on his scalp, wetting down a spot of hair on the right side of his head. The rugaru must have knocked him down harder than I realized.

"Yeah," I agree, slowly nodding. "You were right about rugarus. Son of a bitch was strong."

"There's no reason he should have even gotten that close," Dean snaps. "What happened to your fire?"

"I... forgot to crank the butane on..." I begrudgingly admit.

"You let yourself get distracted," he says. "Again."

A thick and uncomfortable silence falls as Dean angrily begins to pace in slow, wide circles in front of the cabin. He scratches at the stubble that's taken over his chin as he carefully thinks about what he's going to say next. I'm surprised he hasn't...

Hup, there's the flask.

"I'm sorry," I quietly and shamefully apologize. He pauses in his pacing long enough to glare at me.

"You bet your ass you're sorry," he says.

"I am," I insist. "That was dumb and it won't happen again, I swear. No need to get all pissy about it."

This only seems to light a deeper rage from within.

"You have no idea..." he begins and then, just as I think I'm really going to get it, he trails off and swallows whatever emotion I've managed to subject him to. "As long as you ride with me, you're my responsibility," he says with a forced calmness. "But you have your own responsibilities in this job. And I'm not..." Pause. Hard swallow. "I'm not gonna bury you, Ben. I'm not. And I'm not gonna be the one to tell your mom you got killed on the job. If you can't shape up and do the job right, I'm sending you home."

He turns his back to me, slowly walking towards the Impala as he takes a sip from his flask.

I frown.

"I got in this life without you," I angrily call after him. "You can't make me get out."

"Wanna bet?" he calls back with a firm grumble, not bothering to face me.

I think what bothers me the most about Dean pulling the "authority figure" card is how eerily natural it feels. Not because I've idolized him from a far for so long or even because he's the veteran hunter in this partnership. It's something else that I can't quite put my finger on, but it's there and it certainly enhances the shame I feel for letting Dean down.

Never again. I won't let this happen again. I swear, Dean. I won't.


	14. Dragon Tales Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean catches wind of a dragon, but isn't confident Ben is up for the challenge.

_Between Here & There_

For a few days, Dean doesn't say much to me. He sits sullenly behind the wheel of his Impala, squinting at the road that stretches out in front of us. It's day three when I start wondering if he's going to drop me off at my car. Or worse, my mother's house.

He's obviously still pissed about me almost getting eaten by a monster. And if this silence has done anything, it's given me time to think about how I'm kind of mad at him, too. I mean, he hasn't given me a lot of anything but grief this whole time. He hasn't even said "good job" or "nice try". Not once. I know I'm not perfect, but it gets a little irritating, trying to win his approval.

Then again, I'm a little mad at myself, too. I should have - hell, I did - know better than to think Dean would become the dad I never had. Yet, for some reason, I've kept thinking that any minute he's going to drop the surly, drunken attitude and really take me under his wing. It's probably because I've looked up to him from afar for so long, in my head he was already my makeshift father. At the same time, though, I've got this weird feeling it's something else entirely. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Like there's something I can't remember...

Sometime close to sunset Dean gets a call from another hunter. It's difficult for me to make out what the conversation is, since the extent of Dean's end of it is a bunch of "yep", "uh-huh" and "sure". When he hangs up, he keeps on driving without a single word to me.

The next intersection we come to, he takes a lengthy pause. He gives the left a good glance, then the right, then dead ahead as he ponders our direction with a great consideration. And just when it looks like he's going to pull ahead, he puts the Impala in park.

"There's a potential case in Charleston," he states, glancing at me.

"Good thing we've been heading East then," I comment and he sighs.

"I'm not so sure you should come with me on this one," Dean lays out with a mildly gentle tone. "If it's what I think it is, the thing down there isn't a monster for amateurs."

Amateur? Ouch.

"Considering how you handled the rugaru back there, I can't say I'm real confident you can take this next one," he goes on, dishing out another blow to my already lowered self-esteem.

"Look, I screwed up," I admit. "And I feel really bad about that. But you can't honestly tell me you've never screwed up before."

He considers this, but I can tell I'm a long way away from changing his mind.

"You have to give me another chance," I beg. "I can handle whatever it is in Charleston, I swear." Pause. "Or you can drop me off somewhere and I'll just go hunting by myself."

Dean frowns as I point out that kicking me out of the Impala doesn't mean kicking me out of the life.

"Please, Dean," I go on after a few minutes of thoughtful silence has passed. "Take me with you. I can't get better at this if you won't let me practice."

With a deep sigh, Dean begrudgingly returns the idling car to drive and turns right.

"Thanks," I say as he fishes out his flask.

"Don't thank me yet," he grumbles between sips. "This is your last chance, you got it? You screw this one up, I'm taking you home."

I gulp as I picture how that might go. How my mom would react to me standing on the front step with a one eyed, grizzled man holding my ear between two fingers, ranting about how her son has been hunting monsters and doing a piss poor job of it. I could see her calling the cops on Dean, or the boys at the funny farm. Even Jim, my step-dad, would find it all too bizarre, which is saying something. Jim's not the most normal person I've ever met.

"Got it," I slowly say. "So... what's in Charleston?"

"Something's been stealing a shit ton of gold," he reveals. "An enormous, bat-like creature has been spotted near each robbery."

"Something's stealing gold?" I repeat. "Just gold? No silver or diamonds?"

"Just gold," Dean confirms. "And virgins."

Probably not a shifter, then. Shifters take anything and everything, minus virgins. Dwarves? Probably not a dwarf, they're pretty benign as far as supernatural beings go. What else likes gold? And is associated with, or is, a giant bat? And likes virgins? The word "god" comes to mind, but I'm having a hard time coming up with which pagan deity it could be.

"I'm stumped," I finally give up. "What do you think it is?"

For a minute, Dean just keeps his eye on the road ahead of him. His lips curve into a small smile he attempts to stifle, due to the serious nature of the monster. Or the fact that he's Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester doesn't smile much these days.

"A dragon," he reveals at last, and I can't tell if he's serious or joking.

"A... dragon?" I repeat with a short chuckle. "You're kidding me, right?"

Dean gives me a serious glance as my jaw drops.

"I thought dragons were extinct," I say, somewhat baffled by the prospect.

"They were for a long time," Dean tells me, his smile vanishing completely as his expression returns to business. "Eve brought some back a while ago. They're pretty rare, which is good considering there's only about four weapons on the planet that'll actually kill them."

"Oh, good," I mutter with a sarcastic breath. "Where are we going to get a weapon more rare than the monster?"

"I've got one in the trunk."

Of course he does.

\- - - - -

_Charleston, South Carolina_

"We're supposed to kill a dragon with this?"

I hold up an ancient and broken sword, eyeing it with grave doubt.

"I feel like rolling a twelve sided die at it would be just as effective."

Dean snatches the busted blade with haste.

"I'd like to see you pull a sword out of stone," he tells me defensively, carefully eyeing the weapon that's been sitting in the back of his stockpile for over a decade. "Besides, the last dragons I fought looked like humans. Really strong humans with hot hands, but humans none the less."

"Hot hands..." I echo with wonder before putting it together. "Right, the dragon thing. So they're kind of like those mutates from the third Iron Man movie?"

"Yeah..." Dean says with a cocked brow. "Sure. Anyway, the only thing that kills a dragon is a weapon forged with dragon blood."

Hence the shitty little pig poker he holds loosely in his grip, I'm guessing.

"And there's only four of them in existence?" I question and Dean nods.

"Yep," he nods, gently pulling the trunk closed.

"The other three wouldn't happen to be as easily accessible, would they?" I ask and Dean rolls his eye.

"If they were, do you think I'd be charging into a dragon's lair with this?" is how he responds, holding the broken sword up for me to see. "If you'd rather spend your time hunting down Excalibur, I'm sure I can manage on my own..."

"No, no," I shake my head before I realize what Dean just said. "Wait... Excalibur? Really?"

"Apparently," he shrugs. "Come on. Let's get this over with. TCM is running a Clint Eastwood marathon today, I wanna get back to the room before _The Outlaw Josey Wales_ comes on."

A loud, short "huh" pushes through my chest and out my lips at his comment, causing the older hunter to cock a brow at me.

"What?" he wants to know and I shrug.

"Nothing," I shake my head. "It's just... it's kind of like all this is just one long chore to you now."

"Well it is a job," Dean points out. "And it's not exactly a high paying one either. The faster we can take a monster out the better."

"Right," I agree. "I'm just saying, when I go hunting, that's what I'm doing for the night, you know?"

"I do," he nods as he motions for me to follow him, taking the lead to the sewer system of Charleston. "Believe it or not, I remember those days. I'm not that old."

"So this is all just boring to you now?" I wonder as I follow him into the dark, dank tunnels that run beneath the historical city.

"Boring, monotonous, old," he lists. "Exhausting. Pick a word. They all fit."

Despite the fact I've grown more than accustom to Dean and his surly demeanor, this kind of surprises me. These few months I've spent with him, I've taken his rough and sullen ways as being a weathered veteran. He is definitely weathered, but mostly, he's just sick of it.

"So... why are you still doing this?" I ask as we travel the sewers with a broken dragon sword and a pair of flash lights to illuminate our path.

"What else am I supposed to do?" he answers my question with a rhetorical question of his own. "I've gotta do something..."

His last sentence sounds incomplete. Like the words "while I'm still alive" are missing. Or maybe "until I die".

It hits me that maybe, just maybe, he's not doing this because it's the only thing he knows (because it's not). He's not here because he can't, as he claims, escape the life. He's here because he has no one left and it's the quickest way he can think of to get killed without actually killing himself.

I swallow past a lump in my throat. I wonder if, someday, I'll be just like Dean.

"Just wait," he speaks softly, as if he were reading my mind. "You stick around the life long enough, you won't be so different from me."

What else can I do, though? I'm already in. I know about these creatures and I know how to kill them. What kind of person would I be if I chose to save my sanity over the lives of hundreds of people?

Well, I'm not bitter yet. And Dean's not completely alone. I just have to help him see that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mutate" is Marvel's term for people who were not born mutated but develop/experience some type of genetic mutation later in life. Like the Hulk and Captain America. Versus mutants who, in the Marvel universe, are born with a genetic mutation, like Wolverine and Magneto.
> 
> In case you were wondering. Which you probably weren't.
> 
> Carry on.


	15. Dragon Tales, Part II

_Charleston, South Carolina_

The entire sewer system. We wandered the stench filled, rancid tunnels of the city in its entirety and came up with nothing. Not a scrap of gold, a scale or a single virgin (or anyone else for that matter). I'm going to smell like sewage for days.

I have to admit, I never smelled so exotic before I started hunting with Dean. First goats, now this. Maybe next time we can roll around a pile of fish guts and have flocks of seagulls on our ass for days.

Seriously though, I've taken five showers in the last twenty-four hours and I'm still feeling unclean and disease ridden, even in a fresh pair of blue jeans and a brand new Pink Floyd t-shirt. The smell obviously doesn't bother Dean nearly as much as me. He's only taken one shower and changed once.

Granted, Dean's pretty preoccupied with figuring out where our dragon might be hiding. By "preoccupied" I mean completely consumed by frustration. It's clear by the way he pours over police reports and city maps he hasn't had to put this much effort into leg work in years.

I'm personally looking forward to the day I'm pro enough to forgo the legwork process myself. When it all just becomes instinct. When I'm like Dean - a less alcohol dependent version of him, anyway.

"You done primping?" he questions with a complete lack of amusement as I wander from the still steamy bathroom towards my bed.

"Ha ha," I return dryly, running a hand through my damp, dark hair before pulling a blue plaid button down shirt over my arms.

"I'm starting to worry you're a germaphobe," he comments without looking up from a map, to which I roll my eyes. "Check the internet, would you? See if there are any caves in the area."

"I did," I tell him with a small sigh. "Twice."

His eye leaves the map long enough to give me an unenthusiastic look, wordlessly telling me to check again. I let out a soft, inaudible moan as I trudge to the motel desk and open my laptop. My web search this time yields the exact same results as the first two attempts.

"Seriously, dude," I say after an hour of pointless and redundant research. "There's a tunnel in Walhalla, which is literally on the opposite end of the state. That's it." I pause as Dean lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "I did a search on abandoned buildings, too," I continue, hoping to impress him with the additional research I managed to conduct without him having to ask. Even if what I found won't help our case. "There aren't a lot anymore. Ever since the economic recovery and the Abandoned Building Revitalization act of 2013, most abandoned places were either torn down or fixed up."

"That's not very helpful," Dean mutters with annoyance.

"Maybe it's not a dragon," I suggest, trying to ignore the disappointing fact my extra efforts have gone unnoticed. "The area's not real conducive for them, considering the lore."

"Six jewelry stores have been robbed of gold in the last two weeks," Dean speaks with an aggravated tone. "And five young women from the same abstinence club are missing. It's a dragon."

"Okay," I say, finding myself irritated by Dean's attitude. "What if it's an abnormal dragon. You said they look like people sometimes, right? What if it's hanging out in a regular, run of the mill house?"

"That's starting to look like what's going on," Dean agrees with my theory. "That still doesn't help where we find the damn thing." He pauses to stretch and take a sip of whiskey. "Suit up," he tells me after a moment of thought. "We're going fed on this one."

\- - - - -

Agents McCartney (Dean) and King (Ben, aka me) make an appearance at the local cop shop where we don't gather anything more than I had already managed to hack into. The jewelry shops that had been robbed aren't much help either. Even with the interesting footage they managed to catch on candid camera (by which I mean their security cameras), it really only confirms that we're hunting a dragon (or a big ass black blur that kind of looks like a massive bat with a tail if you pause the recordings at just the right moment).

Which leaves us with one place left to check...

"I hate abstinence groups," Dean shudders as we stroll up the cracked path to the modest looking Methodist church.

"To each their own," I reply as I straighten my red and navy striped tie before reaching for the front door handles. "Although, if hunting has taught me anything, it's that virginity is a risky lifestyle."

"No shit," Dean agrees.

We wander the church which, considering the size, doesn't take long. Within five minutes we've tracked down the small basement room where the abstinence club meets. We also find Cindy, the young, thin blonde woman who claims to be the "assistant director" of the group.

"It's so tragic," she dramatically wails at us when we ask her about her missing friends, all the while batting her lashes at me with a certain hunger in her eyes. "I can't believe anyone would take them. They're all such wonderful, sweet girls."

"You didn't happen to see who took them, did you?" Dean questions, to which she shakes her head.

"No," she tells us as she leans into me, rubbing her breasts against my shoulder as she drapes her arms around my neck for comfort. "It's all just so... so..."

"Tragic?" I fill her sentence for her. She bats a pair of big, hazel puppy eyes at me as her lips form a sad pout.

"Yes," she nods, and I feel her fingers gently caress the back of my head.

I'm starting to wonder how abstinent she really is.

I give Dean a silent "help me" look, but he doesn't notice. He's too busy studying Cindy.

"When was the last time you saw any of your friends?" he presses her for details, hoping to get more than alligator tears out of her. "School? Work?"

"I don't work," she mildly shakes her head as a finger suggestively twists itself around a tuff of my dark hair. "I saw them here. We had discussed getting together at my place, but they never showed up."

I'm not going to lie, Cindy's a looker. But the way she's pressing herself against me, a complete stranger, is making me really uncomfortable. Enough to almost distract me from how suspicious this is all getting.

Luckily for us, Dean is completely distraction free.

"That's a nice necklace," he compliments the thick, long gold chain that dangles from around her neck. "I've been looking for one just like it for my wife. Where'd you get it?"

"Hmm?" Cindy says as she gradually releases me from her clutches. "Oh, this? My boyfriend gave it to me."

As she moves her hand away from the back of my head I can hear the distinct sound of multiple bracelets clanking nosily against each other. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimmer of gold as she finally separates herself from me and I breath a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes to us. "I wish I could be more help, but that's really all I know. If you don't mind, I've got a class in twenty minuets."

"No problem," Dean shakes his head, giving her a faux smile. "Thanks for your time anyway."

We remain silent until we reach the Impala, well away from hearing range.

"That wasn't suspicious," I mutter with a breath of sarcasm. "I think she's up to something."

"You think?" Dean returns with his own note of sarcasm. "That was way too much gold for a jobless college student."

"That was a lot of personal space invasion for a virgin, too," I add. "You think she's the droid we're looking for?"

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" he says with a nod, his eye fashioned to the church doors.

"Should we..." I begin, but trail off as I realize how ridiculous what I was about to suggest would sound.

_Should we charge into a church with a broken sword and stab the assistant director of the abstinence club?_

"We'll follow her," Dean tells me. "Just to be sure." He pauses to take a sip from his flask. "I'm not one for religion, but, outside of demons, I still feel kind of weird killing things in a church."

Rightly so.

\- - - - -

"I hate to assume to know a person's situation, but I'm thinking that house looks a little nice for a college kid."

Dean nods his head in agreement as we both stare at the McMansion he's parked his Impala across the street from.

Long story short, we got bored waiting for Cindy to get out of class, so we dug up what we could on her and decided to stake out her house. Which, by the way, looks nothing like a cave.

"You think her boyfriend bought it for her?" I ponder as Dean glances through his binoculars.

"Sure," he shrugs. "If her boyfriend is Bill freaking Gates."

The car fills with silence as Dean and I scope out the house. Which has to look creepy. Two dudes in a muscle car with binoculars, staring intently at a house that's occupied by a single female and no one else.

The thought makes me mildly self conscious, enough to prompt me to lower my spy ware.

I'm trying really hard to focus this time, I am. I've managed to (temporarily) put April at the back of my mind and I've done a decent job convincing myself not to take Crowley's words seriously. This is my last chance to prove to Dean I'm worthy of hunting and I'm worthy of a spot in his Impala. My head has to be in the game this time.

But, of course, there's something on my mind beyond dragons. This time the thing I'm thinking about is sitting less than a foot away from me.

"Hey, Dean," I slowly begin, not entirely certain if I should bring this up, well, ever, but especially now. "Listen. I know this sounds kind of random but..." Deep breath. Exhale. "If you ever need someone to talk to about... stuff... I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

Slowly, Dean puts his binoculars down and turns his head to face me, his brows folded.

"Thanks Dr. Phil," he responds with a note of sarcasm, clearly less than thrilled about my sincere offer. "I'll keep that in mind. Remind me to stop at the store later so we can pick up some tampons for you."

I should have suspected his response might have been something along those lines. It doesn't make what I said any less sincere.

"Come on," he tells me, absently setting his binoculars on the seat between us. "Let's get a better look."

I do as I'm told, following Dean and his broken sword up the front lawn and around the side, peering into windows as we walk. The inside of the house, from what we can tell, seems pretty normal. Neat, clean, and bright.

Now _I'm_ getting frustrated. How is it possible we can track down things like ghosts - which are invisible more often than not - fairly easily, but a giant freaking dragon we can't find to save our lives?

Just as I'm about to question how real dragons actually are, something out of place catches my eye.

"Dean," I softly call, motioning to the small basement window. "Check it out."

Dean's eye wanders towards the ground and he lets out a soft "huh" when he sees what I see.

The basement windows are black. And not because some one's drawn black curtains. They're literally black. All of them.

"Either someone's got a grow room, or we've found a dragon's lair," Dean says with a mild excitement in his voice.

I hold the sword as Dean puts his lock pick tools to good use on the back patio door. Within minutes we're slipping silently inside, cautiously inviting ourselves to take a look around. We find the basement door and use our flashlights to light our way down, choosing not to flick the lights on just in case.

I'm not going to lie, what we find reinstates frustration pretty quickly.

"It's just a basement," I say with a deflated breath.

Really. That's all it is. I mean, it's a nice basement. Well insulated, fairly clean as far as basements go and stocked with storage boxes marked with things like "X-Mas" and "photo albums". One of the walls holds a collection of nice and fairly new looking tools.

"Shit," Dean mutters as he squints his eye, shining his light in every nook and cranny.

"Maybe she's just a shifter, man," I suggest with a long sigh. "And the missing girls are being raptured or something." I pause as my flashlight hits something askew, something hanging from one of the cardboard boxes neatly stacked along the left wall. I inch closer, keenly studying it. Whatever it is, it looks dry and almost skeletal. Like something I've seen somewhere, but different.

"Is that..." I begin, leaning close to really study it. "Is that skin?" I poke it, discovering it is, indeed, dry. "I've never seen shifter skin like this before."

"That's not shifter skin," Dean tells me. "That's dragon skin."

Now that he says it, it is kind of obvious.

"Oh, good," I say with a hint of sarcasm. "Another monster that sheds-"

"Shh!" Dean silences me, suddenly glancing intently around the basement. "Did you hear that?" he asks in a whispered tone.

For a moment we remain silent, listening for whatever it was Dean heard.

And then I hear it.

"Voices?" I half guess, half state and Dean nods. "It sounds like they're coming from the walls."

"Yes it does," Dean agrees, switching his flashlight off. "Turn your light off."

I do as I'm told, which leaves us in complete and utter darkness. My eyes search the now pitch black basement before falling to a bare, stone wall. A small stream of light trickles from a small slit between the cement floor and the wall.

I nudge Dean on the shoulder, motioning towards the light. It takes him about a second to see what I'm pointing to and another second to react. Swiftly he dashes to the spot and places his ear against the wall.

"They're coming from behind here," he tells me as he places his hand at the source of the light. "I think this is a door."

He knocks, taps and presses against the wall before he puts all his weight into it with his left shoulder. As he does, the door gradually opens with a loud groan.

This second, hidden room is much larger than the part of the basement we had just come from, but more bare. A few beds sit along one of the cold stone walls and a toilet sits not too far from them, but that's about it.

Oh, and the five young women who stare at us with wide, terrified eyes.

"Is this... is this a dungeon?" I question as I stare at the shackles the women wear around their wrists and ankles. "I always wanted to play Dungeons and Dragons."

"Not an appropriate time for jokes," Dean cooly points out as we make our way into the room.

"Right," I mutter as the girls fearfully back away from us. "Don't worry ladies, we're here to rescue you."

They glance between each other with hesitation but allow us to approach.

"Damn it," Dean curses as he studies the shackles. "They've been welded. Ben, go see if there are any bolt cutters on the tool bench. We can at least make it easy for them to walk out of here."

I do as I'm told, returning to the basement's first section where I use my flashlight to illuminate the rows of hanging tools. A soft shuffling approaches from behind as I search and I sigh. I can't believe Dean can't trust me enough to look for a tool by myself.

"Don't just stand there," I call back to him. "Help me find some cutters so we can get these girls out of here."

No response.

Oh...

Shit.

Slowly, I turn to face a tall, dark haired gentleman who glares down at me, completely unamused he's caught me rooting through his tool collection.

"FBI?" I attempt, holding my badge up for him to see.

"No, I don't think so," he speaks, shaking his head as he does so. "Hunter."

"Let me guess," I say with a defeated breath. "You're Smaug?"

Before I can blink, his right hand lashes out and grabs me by the wrist with a firm grasp that's almost painful.

Wait, no. This is painful. Hot, like...

Oh, he's burning me.

"A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."


	16. Dragon Tales, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Dean tangle with a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets a tad bit off cannon in the sense that I created a bit of my own myth to go along with the dragon stealing virgins thing.

_Still Charleston, South Carolina_

Smaug - or whatever his name is - doesn't kill me. Instead he marches me back into the "dungeon", pinning my arms behind my back with a brute force as we walk.

Sometimes monsters can be really dumb. Like this guy. He had a chance to burn me alive and be done with me. Instead he's bringing me to a Winchester.

And I'm going to let him. Because I, unlike some people in this room, am not an idiot.

The ladies see us coming and fearfully react, backing away as they did when Dean and I first arrived. Dean, however, is too busy fussing with a brunette's shackles to take much notice.

"Sounds like Cindy's not our dragon after all," Dean tells him, his back turned to me and the fire breather.

"Yeah, I kind of put that one together," I mutter with a mild embarrassment in my tone.

Dean's head comes up before he slowly turns around. When he sees I've returned with hostile company, he grabs the sword he'd laid upon the hard ground and stands ready to strike. When the dragon sees this, he unleashes a loud, hearty "haw haw" that rises from his gut.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" he questions with amusement.

"Kill you," Dean replies simply.

"I'd like to see you try," the dragon boasts with confidence, clearly unaware the broken blade was forged with the blood of his kind.

"Okay," Dean shrugs and begins to charge the man looking beast.

"What is going on in here!?"

The sharp shriek stops Dean in his tracks and all eyes fall upon Cindy, who now stands in the open doorway with her hands on her hips and a cross look plastered on her face.

"You know you've got a dragon keeping virgins locked in your basement?" I question as I attempt to struggle free from Smaug's grip.

The dragon responds to this by burning me again.

"What?" Cindy questions, her face nothing short of serious. Which lasts for about five seconds. That's when the menacing smile crosses her lips. "Of course I knew."

"Don't tell me," Dean says, the sword relaxing a bit as he speaks. "Your dating a monster."

"He's not a monster," Cindy defends. "He's a rare, misunderstood and beautiful being." She pauses as her brows fold in confusion. "Since when does the FBI chase down dragons, anyway?"

"They're not FBI," the dragon informs his mortal girlfriend. "They're hunters."

"I should have known," Cindy mutters, looking Dean over. "An agent with an eye-patch did seem a little out of place."

"The co-leader of an abstinence group rubbing up on my partner wasn't exactly subtle either," Dean points out, causing Cindy's face to fall. "What's your angle, anyway? Or are you seriously just helping him kidnap your friends for gold?"

"I'll admit, the gold is nice," she admits, slowly pacing as she gives us the typical villain reveal. "But it's so much more than that. We're in love. He's going to turn me into a dragon and we're going to move to Chicago where hunters will never bother us again."

Dean snickers at this. I can't see him, but I'm almost positive the dragon is flushing. I might be new to the "dragons exist" concept, but even I know what's wrong with that sentence.

Cindy glances between the Winchester and the dragon with a look of confusion on her face as Dean stifles a potentially uproarious laughter and Smaug's grip on me becomes slack.

"What?" she questions, her thin brows furrowing. "Why is that funny?"

Now it's my turn to snicker.

"What?!" she demands angrily, impatiently folding her arms across her chest.

"I just found out dragons aren't extinct," I begin to explain when no one else jumps on the opportunity. "But even I know that's not how dragons are made."

Cindy's face quickly falls from anger to confusion to disappointment.

"What... what do you mean?" she has to ask, something that makes me realize the dragon isn't as stupid as he seems.

"There are some monsters that can turn a regular person like you and me into them," I inform her. "Werewolves, vampires - your standard horrors. Other monsters are born through the act of reproduction. Monsters like shape shifters, djinn and, oh, I don't know, dragons."

Realization strikes Cindy and it's hard to miss the look of betrayal that settles.

"What?" she whispers as Dean shakes his head.

"You've been helping your boyfriend steal virgins and you never asked him why?" he questions.

Cindy blinks over at the frightened women huddled in a corner, the very women she willingly helped abduct.

"Dragons don't eat virgins," Dean points out. "They're not gods. They-"

"Mate with them," Cindy finishes his sentence in a voice barely above a whisper. "God, I'm an idiot."

"That would be an understatement," I mutter as Cindy shoots me - or maybe Smaug - a dirty look.

"How could you lie to me like that?" she asks him as tears swell in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, baby," the dragon begins the awkward apology you see on TV shows like Maury when the cheating boyfriend is confronted by his redneck girlfriend in front of a studio audience. "I didn't think you'd help me if you knew the truth. It's not like there are a lot of places for me to hide around here."

"You used me!?" Cindy accuses with a shrill shriek in her voice. "I thought you loved me!"

"I do!" the dragon insists as his grip becomes even more relaxed. "There aren't a lot of us. It's my duty to make more, and you're not exactly capable of helping me in that department."

Generally, I'm not a fan of dramatic quarrels and lovers spats. But I'm really loving this one. Because this time I'm not the one whose too distracted.

With every ounce of strength I can summon, I give my arms a mighty jerk. I slip free from the dragon's grasp before giving him a hearty kick in the stomach for good measure to assure my freedom. Smaug staggers slightly as I back myself towards Dean, brandishing my pistol as I do so.

The dragon gives us a cold, bitter stare as a fire ignites in his eyes.

"You're dead!" he growls at us, his hands turning a bright shade of hot orange as he spits the threat.

"Not today, Smaug," I shake my head, keeping my gun aimed directly at him.

"My name isn't Smaug!" he roars in aggravation.

"I don't really care what your name is," I tell him, keeping a calm, unwavering voice. "Just don't take another step."

"Or what?" he says with an eye roll. "You'll shoot me?"

"Shoot you, stab you," I reply. "Either way, we're the ones holding weapons. All you have are hot hands."

"Your pathetic weapons can't kill me," he insists with a prideful tone and a smug smile.

"Mine can't," I easily admit. "Tell me though, how fast can a dragon run with a bullet in his knee cap?"

I don't give him long to ponder my rhetorical question. He has enough time to let a worried look of confusion cross his face before my index finger pulls the trigger. Less than a single second later, blood spurts from his left kneecap and the dragon collapses to the floor with an agonizing howl.

Quite proud of myself for applying a Dean taught lesson to my "last chance" hunt, I give my mentor a quick glance to gauge his reaction. He seems mildly impressed, but not enough to praise me. Instead, he twirls the broken sword around in his right hand.

"That's not gonna keep him down for long," he comments.

"It's a good thing I packed more than one bullet then," I respond, keeping my gun aimed at the dragon. Dean gives a short, agreeable head nod as he gives the blade another showy swing.

"Nooooo!" Cindy shrieks, charging me at a rapid rate.

She might be pissed her boyfriend lied to her - horrifically, I might add - but she still doesn't want us to kill him.

So she lunges at me with open arms with every intention of tackling me. Considering her small size and my taller, more muscular structure, she falls short of her goal. Instead of bringing me to the ground, she clings to my back like a cute, blonde monkey. It does make it difficult to maintain balance and it does ruin my aim, but it doesn't bring me down.

Dean takes this opportunity to rush the dragon, the broken sword steady in his grasp as he swiftly advances on the beast. Like a warrior or knight of old, Dean raises his weapon above his head before bringing it down with a fast, downward swing meant to slice straight through the dragon's neck. Just as the sharp edges of the blade are about to make contact with Smaug's soft, delicate human flesh, the beast's right hand snaps up and tightly grasps Dean's right wrist.

Dean gasps in surprise and pain as the sword drops from his clutches and the dragon rises to face his opponent. I can't see it, since I'm a little busy trying to maintain footing with Cindy riding my back, but I can tell the dragon is currently searing Dean's skin.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters through gritted teeth while dragon boy brings him to his knees.

But Dean is not so easily defeated, and lays a stiff left hook into the dragon's temple.

I can't deny how much I'd love to take the time to marvel at the sight of Dean Winchester fist-fighting a dragon in a dungeon. I really should find a way to help him, though. Which means finding a way to get Cindy - who, despite her inferior level of strength - can really hold on.

I'm just glad she's not sinking her nails into me.

Okay, how do I go about peeling this girl off of me? I was raised to never, ever hit a woman, so that's out. She's not even a monster, so there's no justifying a quick bend in the rules.

Maybe I should charge in with her on my back?

I swirl around as I attempt to break free from her clutches when I notice the five young women who look on with fascination. I'm a little surprised they didn't try to make a break for it in the confusion. At the moment, I'm also entirely grateful they're still here.

"A little help here, ladies?" I kindly request, motioning to Cindy.

I don't have to ask twice. They're more than happy to oblige my request, taking pleasure in lunging at their so-called friend. Even with their wrists shackled, the five young women easily manage to peel Cindy off my back.

Free at last, I take aim at the dragon who now has Dean pinned to the ground.

"What the hell am I doing?" I mutter to myself, looking between my hand gun and the broken sword just feet away from the most epic fist fight I've ever seen.

I slip my gun into my jacket pocket before swiftly scooping up the broken blade. Luckily for me, Smaug is too distracted with Dean to notice what I'm up to. With a fluid, downward thrust, the sword slides through the back of the dragon's neck, catching both dragon and Dean by surprise.

Before too much blood can spill onto the older hunter's face, Dean rolls the shocked (and choking) beast off of him and scrambles to his feet. He stands beside me with a heavy breath as we both watch the light switch off in the monster's eyes.

Oh my god. I just slayed a dragon.

I really just slayed a dragon.

Not only that, I saved Dean Winchester. I freaking saved him while passing his little test with extra credit points.

Best. Day. Ever. Not even Cindy's painful sobbing can bring me down from the giddy high I'm currently feeling.

"Go find those bolt cutters," Dean instructs me, nowhere near as excited as I am. "I think these ladies have been here long enough."

I'm so ecstatic, not even Dean's general surliness can bring me down right now.

\- - - - -

I should have known better than to expect my excitement to last long. By which I mean, I found the buzz kill and his name is Dean Winchester.

I wait to hear a "thank you" while we cut the chains that bind the girl's shackles. I wait to hear "good job" while we clean up the dragon corpse. I expect to hear "good idea" when I collect a jar of dragon's blood to forge into bullets so I can just shoot the damn thing next time. I half hope to at least hear "you passed the test" when we make sure the police are on their way to collect the young women and arrest Cindy.

But nothing ever comes.

"Did you have something you might want to say to me?" I boldly question once we've safely returned to our motel room, still a little buzzed from all the enthusiastic adrenaline.

"This isn't about feelings, is it?" Dean returns with a look of distaste.

"No," I shake my head.

"In that case, yeah," he says with a short nod. "I guess I do." He pauses as he fishes out his flask. "It's your turn to go on a food run. Don't forget the beer." Pause. "Pick me up some whiskey too, would you?"

That's not at all what I was fishing for.

But I do it anyway. Maybe he'll thank me when I get back.

_Quit kidding yourself, Ben. He's never going to pat your back. Hell, he'll probably never even admit that you saved him._

What am I even doing here with him anymore? Sure he's taught me a thing or two, but most of what I've learned is about him. He's not the man I thought he was, or the man I thought he could eventually be to me.

Really, he's just an unpleasant, jaded old hunter. A really good one, mind you. But unpleasant none the less.

Upon returning to the motel, I over hear another one of Dean's private conversations flow from beyond the closed door and I take pause to listen.

"... thought you had a lead?" his voice floats through the walls. "What do you mean it wasn't the right one? How many angels are left on earth these days, anyway?" Pause. "Of course I took care of the dragon. You were supposed to be tracking down Cas while I was doing your job." Pause. "Yeah, no. Okay. Fine. Just keep an ear out. Please?"

After the conversation seems to have ended, I can distinctly hear an aggravated growl seconds before the familiar sound of a phone shattering against a wall calls out.

I guess this is why I've stuck around this long. Despite the fact he refuses to acknowledge it, I'm all Dean's got now. And, despite everything, he is kind of the closest thing I've had to a real dad since, well, ever.

Still, I wonder how much longer I can keep going like this?


	17. Oh My Gods

_Minneapolis, Minnesota_

"Werewolves."

Dean says this with breath of satisfaction and a smile on his lips.

I've never seen him so excited before. I mean, he's not exactly hopping up and down and squeeing like a little girl or anything. He does have a hard, badass image to uphold, after all. Still, I can see it in his eye and the way he's been grinning nonstop all the way here.

Me, I'm less than enthused to be on this case. Sure, I've killed a wolf or two and I'm not necessarily opposed to doing it again. It is kind of my job. I just take less pleasure in it than Dean.

Plus, I'm still a little irked he hasn't remotely attempted to thank me for saving his ass from being barbecued by Smaug.

"There's just something about hunting them," he goes on as we suit up for some good old fashioned Fed roll playing. "Something... raw. Natural. You with me?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," I slowly nod as I pull my navy and red striped tie around my neck. "Sure. I'm just..." Pause. "You don't have a problem hunting wolves, huh?"

"Uh, no," Dean says with a raised brow and a "are you crazy?" look on his face. "Why should I?"

"It's nothing," I pretend not to be bothered by it. "It's just... you ever think about Garth when you're hunting wolves?"

"Nope," he tells me, not letting our mutual friend bring down his fantastic mood. "And you shouldn't either. He's not like the wolves we hunt and if he were, you know he'd want us to put a silver bullet between his eyes."

He's got me there.

"Besides," Dean goes on with an excited breath. "Based on the lunar cycle, the wolf in town is a purebred. Garth's just cursed."

If anything, that makes me feel more weird about the case. It's not like anyone actually chooses to be a werewolf. If they weren't bit - as Dean helpfully pointed out - they were born with it. Knowing where they end up now makes me all the more uneasy about taking on a case like this.

I can feel Dean's eye as I pretend to preoccupy myself with my own reflection.

"If it makes you feel better," he begins, not letting my hesitations and general mood bring him down. "The wolf we're looking for knows exactly what it's doing. He - or she - is a purebred. They're fully in control of their changes."

What Dean's trying to tell me is this wolf deserves a send off to Purgatory.

I guess he's not wrong. Seven bodies in two weeks technically makes this guy (or gal) a mass murderer. A real monster. At this point we have no choice but to put it down.

Maybe I'm just that irritated I can't get credit where credit is due. I actually rocked that last case back in North Carolina. I slayed a goddamn dragon for fucks sake. And I saved Dean's hide. Yet I still haven't gotten so much as a "thank you" or even a "good job".

Maybe this whole Ben Braden/Dean Winchester team up wasn't such a great idea after all.

\- - - - -

Dean's excitement is cut short when we hit the morgue and discover our wolf case is far less cut and dry than originally perceived. The news articles that led us to the Twin Cities in the first place stated a wild animal had been mauling its victims and stealing their hearts. Which isn't completely inaccurate. Each cadaver still available for viewing bears distinct claw marks (which are suspiciously large for a werewolf, I might add) and a massive hole in their chests where their hearts used to be. What the papers failed to mention were the missing livers, kidneys and spleens.

"One guy last week came in with half his lower intestines chewed up," the morgue doctor eagerly tells us, clearly both intrigued and disgusted by the whole affair. "I've never seen anything like it."

That makes two of us.

So Dean - who is back to his usual sulky old self - and I return to our motel room for a good old fashioned round of research. Luckily this time around, our efforts yield some fairly useful findings fairly quickly. One, stay out of the Philippines and let their hunters worry about their crazy ass organ eating monsters. Two, if we're not hunting a giant Filipino monster called an Asuang, we're hunting a pagan deity.

"I'm thinking we're dealing with a god," I share with Dean who sits on his bed flipping through weathered old journals and sipping whiskey.

"That's a little ambiguous," he returns grumpily, causing me to let loose a frustrated sigh.

If there wasn't a monster with a serious appetite loose in a major city, I'd probably tell him to shove his whiskey and his attitude up his ass.

At least, I like to think I have enough balls to tell him that.

But there _is_ a monster with a serious case of the munchies running around the Midwestern city. Which means now is not a good time to freak out over how sick I'm getting of playing the part of the unappreciated apprentice.

"Based on where the bodies were discovered," I calmly continue, temporarily swallowing my rage. "I'd say it's one from Scandinavian lore." I pause as I shove my lap top in front of his face, displaying a birds-eye view of the city marked with red X's that form an imperfect circle. "All the victims were found less than a mile away from here," I continue, pointing to the building in the center of it all.

"'Here' would be...?" Dean questions.

"The American Swedish Institute," I share. "They're more of an art museum, but they do display artifacts when they're made available."

"Fascinating," Dean says with a lack of enthusiasm. "Except gods aren't normally attached to objects. That's ghosts you're thinking of."

"Right," I agree as I pull up a second page for him to view. "But they did receive a stone box only days before the attacks started."

The second web page I pull up for Dean to view contains the photograph of a small gray, stone box with rune carvings etched into its otherwise smooth surface.

"So you're thinking the ghost of a god?" Dean questions as he glances over my discovery.

"Well, no," I shake my head as I contemplate the idea of a god's ghost haunting a museum, briefly wondering if it's even possible. "According to local police reports, the box had been sealed pretty tightly when it arrived. Considering it dates back a good two thousand years, the staff didn't want to try to jimmy it open. Well, a couple of days later, the box was stolen. They found it maybe a hundred yards away from vic number one. But when they found it, it was open."

"What was in it?" Dean questions, gradually shaking his disappointment and allowing himself to become more involved in the case at hand.

"Nothing," I reveal. "Well, not exactly nothing. They did find a weird looking chain whose material they can't quite identify. Other than that, it was empty." I pause to gauge Dean's reaction, which is, for now, thoughtful. "I'm thinking there was god trapped inside the box."

"Yes," Dean nods, agreeing with my theory. "But what one?"

"I'm... still working on that one," I hesitantly admit. "I don't read rune."

"Don't look at me," Dean says, handing my computer back to me. "I don't read dead languages, either."

For a minute, I just stand there, looking down with annoyance as Dean returns to his prized journals. I'm sick of being the thankless lackey. I'm tired of doing all the research while Dean flips through pages written by the dead drunks he idolizes. I'm completely over this one-sided "partnership".

"You better get on that," Dean tells me, not bothering to look up as he reads pages he's read countless times before. "It's getting dark. I'd personally like to know how to kill whatever god we're after before we go after it."

One more hunt. I just gotta make it through this last hunt. And I'm going to give it my all, because I'm Ben fucking Braden and, despite everything, I still want Dean to see I'm worthy of this life.

And if he doesn't start paying attention, I'll just go back to my shitty little pickup truck. I'd rather fly solo than be unappreciated by a jaded old drunk.


	18. Oh My Gods, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Dean face off with Fenrir, the Norse wolf god, who's not exactly the monster lore would have you believe he is.

_Minneapolis, Minnesota_

I can't believe how dumb I am sometimes.

I mean, I'm not a mythology expert. There are just too many gods and deities to keep track of. As a hunter, it would be kind of pointless to memorize every god from every religion that ever existed, seeing as how A, there's only one of each deity, B, they all die a different way and C, half of them are already dead and I don't know who's left alive.

But this one really should have been obvious.

Only it doesn't start falling into place until after a few hours of research at the local library.

"There's good news and bad news," I announce to Dean when I return to the motel.

"What's the good news?" he asks before taking a sip from his flask.

"I figured out who we're hunting," I reveal somewhat proudly, despite how I should have been able to pinpoint the god a few hours sooner than I actually did. "And it's still a wolf. Not a werewolf, but close. Sort of."

"Well?" Dean presses impatiently, ready to get the job over and done with.

"Fenrir."

"Fenrir?" Dean echoes in the form of a question. "Fenrir... you mean Fenris?"

"Both pronunciations are acceptable," I inform him. "He was the wolf son of Loki."

"Loki turned out to be an arch angel," Dean is quick to inform me.

"Yes," I nod, remembering the legends of Dean and Sam Winchester versus the Trickster aka Gabriel. "But was he the original Loki?"

Dean ponders this but remains silent, waiting for me to explain exactly why I think we're hunting the Norse god of mischief's son.

"Fenrir was... well, he wasn't really the god of anything," I go on, glancing between my notes and the hunter who remains seated on his bed. "But he was set to be a major player during Ragnörok, which was, more or less, the Norse version of the Apocalypse."

"I thought Ragnörok was part of some kind of werewolf cult's plot to turn everyone," Dean cuts me off and I shrug.

"Maybe," I reply. "According to Norse lore, it translates into 'twilight of the gods'. The point in time where a bunch of important gods were supposed to die. Like, Thor was supposed to go down fighting Jörmungandr, the world serpent. Another one of Loki's kids, actually."

Dean cleans his throat, signaling he's ready for me to get to the point.

"Fenrir was predicted to be the one who would kill Odin by swallowing him," I return my focus to the important parts of the story. "Odin got a little freaked out by this and decided to have Fenrir banished to an island where he would be chained with a magic fetter made with some really bizarre components. Bird spittle, the roots of a mountain. Stuff like that."

"Which would explain the weird chain inside the box," Dean catches on.

"Exactly," I nod. "I'm guessing the island he was banished to was less physical and more metaphorical."

"You're thinking the box was his island," Dean presumes.

"It would make sense," I say. "A lot of old lore is filled with metaphors. Plus, I managed to translate a couple of these runes."

"Just a couple?"

"Yes," I respond through clenched teeth. "It's not exactly an easy language to translate. One of them means 'wolf'. A couple of them seem to say 'do not open'."

"Until Ragnörok, right?" Dean slips in a mild joke that I might have appreciated under different circumstances. "Alright, so we're on Fenrir's trail. How do we kill him?"

"That's the bad news," I hesitantly respond. "I couldn't find anything that would indicate how to actually kill him. Most of the lore I found on him said he was a giant wolf god, an asshole, and a major dooms day player."

Dean looks dissatisfied by my response, his brows crumpling as I try to explain why I don't know how to kill what we're hunting.

"I did a little research on other Norse deities," I quickly add, flipping through my hand scrawled notes. "It sounds like a wooden stake made from an ash tree is the best way to take most of the other gods out. I'm guessing if it would work on someone like Tyr and Frigg, why not Fenrir?"

Dean is still less than thrilled I don't have an exact answer, but willing to accept it anyway.

"Fine," he says, slowly rising from his seat. "I should have one of those in my trunk."

I lack surprise in this for some reason.

"Let's get a move on," he instructs me, pulling his old leather jacket over his shoulders. "I'm gonna be pissed if there's an eighth victim while we're in town."

\- - - - -

It's dark when we reach the museum grounds. Well, as dark as it can really get in a major city, anyway. Which is actually light enough for us to leave our flashlights in the Impala.

"I'm not second guessing your research," Dean begins as we settle in for our god watch somewhere in the shadows of the building. "But if Fenrir really sprang out of that box, why's he hanging around?"

"Donno," I admit with a short shrug as I stuff my hands inside my jacket pocket, gently reassuring myself I've packed my pistol. "Maybe he's not strong enough to take off yet. He's probably been locked inside that box for two thousand years. He probably needs a little... protein... before he can make tracks."

Dean nods but says nothing. My theory on why Fenrir's stayed in town is something he's already speculated for himself, judging by the calm, complacent look on his face. He was just testing me. Again.

"Is there an actual game plan here?" I question as we keep a lookout for a giant sized wolf. "I mean, we've only got one weapon between the two of us."

"Thats right," Dean says, his memory sparking at my words. "Here," he says, pulling the ash stake from the inner pocket of his jacket. "You take it."

"Thanks," I say, accepting the crude god killing weapon. "What about you?"

"Hmm? Oh." He pauses to spread his jacket open, revealing the hilt of the long silver blade he had been wielding during our failed demon hunt. "I have this."

I'll admit, the blade did look impressive when I saw it the first time. But to me, it's just a fancy weapon.

"I don't follow," I admit as he folds his jacket to a close. "How is that supposed to bring down Fenrir?"

"It's an angel blade," he reveals with an eye roll, as if it should be obvious to me. "I've never used it on a god before, but it kills demons and angels. Might as well see what else it'll kill."

The words have hardly left his lips when a high pitched, blood-curdling scream pierces the night air. Dean and I both wheel around to search for the source of the alarm. Whoever's in trouble is beyond our eyesight.

"Over there," Dean points towards a patch of trees in the near distance.

We break into a full run, both of us feeling for our weapons for easy access when the time is right. Which is not, of course, right now. It's always an awkward situation, running after a monster brandishing a blade, only to have a cop stop you.

When the time is right, I have a difficult time pulling the stake from my jacket. I've had a run in with a god or two, sure. But they always looked like people. So I'm a little awed - and a lot freaked out - by the scene Dean and I have burst into.

Standing over a freshly mauled - but still alive - redheaded woman is the biggest wolf I've ever seen. I'm not talking Great Dane big. This thing, this god, is easily the size of a horse.

There is no way in hell I'm going to be able to get a stake anywhere close to this guy's heart.

"Freeze, Fido!" Dean barks fearlessly at the creature, pointing his gun at it in hopes to intimidate it.

It catches the creature's attention. The wolf glares at us and bears his teeth as a low growl escapes his throat.

"Let her go, Fenrir," Dean orders, cautiously inching closer to the massive, silver and gray coated beast. I follow suit, attempting to mask my fear with a false bravery.

For a moment, the wolf remains atop the woman, her arms pinned down by his front paws. Suddenly, miraculously, he begins to step back, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

"Get out of here," Dean instructs the terrified and bleeding woman, maintaining the same eye contact with the god as he speaks.

He doesn't have to tell her twice. Hell, she was half gone by the time the words hit his lips.

Silence falls between the three of us as Fenrir stares us down. A few minutes pass like this until, quite suddenly, the wolf is replaced by the figure of a tall, muscular man with young facial features and silvery gray hair.

Somehow this is more uncomfortable than the massive wolf. It does give us a better chance at lodging one of our sharp objects into his chest, so that's a plus. Can't say I'm a huge fan of the nakedness he shamelessly displays as he slowly begins to move closer to us.

Then again, where's a wolf going to keep clothes?

"You're hunters," Fenrir speaks a few words of shaky English, pegging us exactly for what we are.

"And you're the Norse god of douchery," Dean returns. The way Fenrir cocks his head as his brows fold into confusion, I can tell the word "douchery" is lost on him.

"I am not the god of anything," he speaks with a thick, Nordic accent.

I'm honestly impressed he knows English at all. Two thousand years locked in a box, one would think he'd only know an ancient Scandinavian and/or Germanic language. Yet here he is, speaking to us -unusually softly I might add - in our own native language.

Gods must be quick learners.

"Well, god of nothing," Dean goes on, keeping his weapon aimed at Fenrir. "You seem like a smart guy. If you know we're hunters, you know why we're here."

"I do," Fenrir admits with a small head nod. "And I apologize for the people that have been sacrificed to aid my recovery. I've been locked away for a very long time. As you can imagine, I was very weak and very hungry."

"Yeah, well, we still can't have gods running around snacking on civilians," Dean returns unsympathetically.

"I understand," Fenrir nods, his voice calm as he continues to slowly maneuver towards us in a completely non-threatening way. "I never wanted to harm anyone. This strange village lacks farm animals. I had to make due with a few human sacrifices, and I'm sorry."

I gotta be honest, I'm a little blown away by this. Every Norse myth I dug up on this guy painted him as an asshole. Yet here he is, actually apologizing for killing people with a genuinely remorseful look on his face.

It makes me wonder who else in myth and history has been made out as a big bag of dicks when they're actually not such a bad person (or deity, as it were).

"Please," Fenrir begins. "I mean no harm. I just want to get out of here. Find my children. It's been so long..." Pause. "If you could just show me the way out of here. Point me to the nearest farm, I promise you'll never hear of me again."

"I don't know about a farm," I speak up. "But there's a zoo..."

"Don't help him," Dean hisses at me, nudging my shoulder. "He's a monster."

"Why?" Fenrir wants to know, his expression folding into mild pain at Dean's words. "Because of what I am? Because of who my father was? Because of what the prophecy said I would become?"

"Uh, no," Dean shakes his head. "Because you slaughtered seven people in the last two weeks."

"The other gods used to call me monster, too," Fenrir tells us, ignoring Dean's last comment. "Me and my siblings. They hated us because they hated Loki, my father, and they hated our mother because she was a Frost Giant. They feared us because we, to them, were ugly and different."

"And because you were going to eat Odin, I'm assuming," Dean points out.

I remain silent. I have to keep reminding myself of the bodies he's destroyed to prevent myself from feeling too sympathetic.

"Was I?" Fenrir proposes, a spark of anger igniting in his eye. "I would never bring harm to the All Father. His famed wisdom and knowledge may have been a bit far fetched, but he was still our king. Our god. Our leader. I would never have betrayed him."

"That's not how the prophecy goes," Dean mutters, causing Fenrir to frown.

"The prophecy," he bitterly spits. "The great lie, you mean?" He pauses to allow his anger to settle some before continuing. "Have you any idea what it's like to be burdened with the weight of something like Ragnörok? Have you any idea what it's like to be charged by so-called fate with playing a great hand in the destruction of the world?"

I personally don't.

But Dean does. He knows it well. It wasn't so long ago that the Winchesters fought against their own fate to prevent an apocalyptic prophecy from coming to light. And it's something Dean remembers clearly, made apparent by the way he gradually begins to lower his firearm.

"My family was torn apart," the god continues his sad point of view of the tale I'd only just become familiar with. "And Odin locked me away, isolated me from the world, because of something fate told him I would someday do."

Dean doesn't say anything. His gun is now completely lowered and his stance has become, more or less, relaxed.

"What about Loki?" I question, genuinely curious about this new set of details. "Why didn't your dad stop them?"

"Loki?" Fenrir echoes. "Loki would not have allowed his family to be torn apart. Gabriel," he adds with a snarl. "The bastard who killed my father and stole his face. Gabriel would." He pauses and, even in the dark, I can see his cheeks flush with fury. "Gabriel was the one who planted the idea in the All Father's ear."

Part of me knows this could all just be a long sob story. That Fenrir's side of how Odin banished him, his siblings and his kids, got a little cloudy during the last two millennia. Then again, I have to wonder why a god who can take the form of a wolf the size of a horse would bother telling us any of this. If Fenrir were really the asshole god I've read about, he wouldn't bother explaining himself. He'd attack first, and eat our organs later. No questions asked or explanations laid out.

Do we really have to kill him? I know seven people died to feed him, but a hell of a lot more people than that have died in the last two weeks thanks to automobile accidents. And tobacco. And pharmaceuticals. And those are all things somebody somewhere profited off of at some point for some reason. This guy's just trying to gain enough strength to get out and find the family he hasn't seen since Jesus wandered the desert.

Is he really such a monster? Would I have done any different if I were him?

I hate hunts that make me question my career.

"Please," Fenrir speaks, his eyes silently begging us to lay our weapons down and walk away. "I just want to find my sons. I swear you will hear no more of me after this night. I am not the monster the gods before me have made me out to be. See? I haven't killed you. And I won't. I swear it on my father's grave. I just want to find my sons. Please?"

I give Dean a hopeful glance. I'm probably going against some unwritten hunters code here, but I'm starting to feel really bad for this guy. And if anyone can understand bending the rules to do what's right, it's Dean.

The older hunter ignores my hopeful stares as he contemplates Fenrir's pleas. His expression is plastered with deep though, understanding and hesitation. From where I stand, it looks like Dean is just as anxious to kill the god as I am.

"Sorry," he speaks with a hint of remorse as he unsheathes his angel blade. "I don't think I can risk letting you go."

Fenrir's brows fold as Dean vocalizes his decision.

"As you wish," he says with a breath of disappointment. "I wasn't really asking, by the by. You will not kill me here this night."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Dean returns. There's something off about the way he says this, as if he lacks conviction.

Before we can blink, Fenrir returns to his animal form. The massive wolf pounces on Dean, sending the older hunter sprawling to the hard ground below. I hear a sickening crunch as Fenrir stands over him, his paws pinning Dean to the ground, his lips curled to bear his long white fangs with a menacing growl.

In a panic, I reach for my gun. I take a careful aim, hoping to injure the giant beast long enough to get the stake through his hide. Like I did with the dragon, and Dean did with the revenant.

I squeeze the trigger and unleash a single silver bullet from its chamber. It finds a nice spot in Fenrir's right shoulder which would, on most anything else, be a temporarily disabling shot. Unfortunately for me, Fenrir is an exception to this theory. All I've done is piss him off.

The wolf narrows his eyes as I grab his attention and lets loose a low, angry growl before quickly turning away from Dean. He races towards me and, for some dumb reason, all I can think to do is fire off a few more bullets.

_Get the damn stake!_

I drop my gun and unsheathe the ash wood stake which, in comparison to the size of the wolf currently barreling towards me, seems kind of pathetic. I hold onto it anyway, wrapping my fingers around it so tightly for a second I think I might actually snap the damn thing.

I take a steady, careful aim - at least, as steady and careful as I can manage given the circumstances - and draw my hand back as Fenrir begins to descend. As luck would have it, the wolf god notices my weapon. Whether it's because I've foolishly selected the wrong type of wood or because the size would probably give him a sliver at best in this form, he seems completely unworried by it.

Still, he manages to avoid it and shoves me aside. The stake flies from my grasp as I spiral to the ground. I flail around to prepare myself for another assault, but it never comes. When I glance up, I have just enough time to see Fenrir quickly dash away from the scene and from view.

Well, he kept his promise. He didn't kill us. Even after Dean said he wouldn't return the favor. I wonder why? I mean, there's nothing stopping us from going after him. Maybe he figured by keeping his end of the bargain, it'll give us enough incentive to leave him alone.

My attention falls to Dean when he lets out a soft but painful moan. I slowly crawl to my feet before walking over where he lays.

"You okay?" I ask as I offer him a hand.

"Fucker broke my arm," Dean groans, accepting my hand with his left. He keeps his right arm stiff and close to his chest as I help him to his feet, grimacing as he finds his footing.

"Where's Fenrir?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Donno," I admit. "He knocked me over and took off."

"That's weird," he comments with a distracted breath. "Shit." With his good hand he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his flask. He holds the object and unscrews it with the same hand, which I would find impressive if I hadn't long since grown tired of his habit. He takes a long swig before letting out another groan.

"I think I need to go to the hospital," he admits as he fishes the keys out of his pocket. "Here. You drive."

I accept the keys and the task with hesitance. Dean just let it slide that Fenrir got away. And I finally get to drive the Impala, too?

I'd be a little more optimistic about all of this if I wasn't sure this was just the calm before a storm.


	19. Comfortably Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally opens up to Ben, and what he says is the last thing the young hunter ever expected to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it begins to diverge from cannon land. I wrote this before the season ten premier, so I was going off of my own speculations on what might happen after the season nine finale. You never really know, though. Dean's not totally fixed just yet.

_Minneapolis, Minnesota. Still._

By now I've gotten pretty used to Dean's excessive drinking habits. The guy easily kills a fifth a day, at the very least. But no matter how much he drinks, I've never once seen him inebriated.

Until now.

I don't know if he's drinking more, if it's his pain medication or a combination of both. Whatever it is, he's completely out of it. And the level of surly he's displayed ever since he broke his arm puts his old level of surly to shame.

Seriously. He grumbles and slurs at everything.

I'm personally surprised he hasn't ODed yet.

Which is why I'm still here, I suppose. Despite how much I've come to loathe how he treats me - how I'm the thankless assistant - for some reason I still care about him. I'm still kind of pissed at him, but I don't want him to die.

He's not exactly in any condition to be fighting super-strength beings, either. Even if he wasn't on drugs, he's only got the one arm. Taking down monsters single handedly - literally - is no easy task, no matter what your last name is. Since I'm technically still his official hunting buddy, I guess it's my duty to make sure nothing's hunting him while he's on the mend.

So we pass the days in our motel room, mostly in silence save for Dean's random and belligerent rants.

"What the hell is this shit?" Dean grumbles at the television from his mostly laying down but sort of upright and kind of awkward position on his bed.

I glance up from the computer in my lap long enough to get a good look at the television screen that sits atop a wooden dresser just beyond the foot of our beds.

"It's called _Adventure Time_ ," I inform him. "It's been on for, like, ever."

"It's fucked up," he says with a wrinkled nose and a slight slur before taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. "I don't like it."

"That's weird," I comment, my eyes focusing on the strange cartoon. "Drugs normally make this show a lot more entertaining."

Dean sends me a look of angered shock. The kind your mom might give you if she heard you talking about... well, anything you shouldn't talk about in front of your mom. Drugs, sex, rock n roll.

"... Or so I was told by some of my classmates in high school..." I awkwardly add, mildly attempting to cover the mention of my youthful indiscretions.

"Whatever," Dean returns his eye to the television. "Just change the damn channel."

"But you have... never mind."

I gently set my laptop aside and stand up to grab the remote sitting less than an arm's length away from Dean's good hand. I flip channels for a while before I realize Dean's not going to tell me when to stop. I settle on an older flick titled _Boondock Saints_ and wait for him to veto it. When he remains silent for long enough, I quietly return to my bed and the story I'm working on.

Did I ever mention I gave a lot of thought to a career in writing once? The nice thing about writing is, even as a hunter, I can still do it every now and again. Right now I'm putting together a graphic novel piece about...

"Why the hell are we still in Minneapolis?"

I hang my head as Dean, once more, breaks my concentration with a bitter, semi-coherent outburst.

"Well," I slowly begin. "We _were_ here to see if Fenrir was still hanging around. He doesn't seem to be, but it's not like we've got anywhere else to go."

"Why don't we go to the bunker?" Dean asks. I frown in confusion.

"Bunker?" I echo. "What bunker?"

"The one in Kansas..." He trails off as he glances as me, showing mild signs of embarrassment when he notices I'm not the one he thought he was talking to.

I wasn't joking when I said he's been out of it. If anything, that's putting it mildly.

"Never mind," he mumbles as he returns his gaze to the movie.

"No, now I'm curious," I shake my head as I speak. "What bunker?"

"I said never mind," he growls sternly. "It's none of your business."

Oh... kay then...

The last time he got even remotely that upset with me - the epic fail in Whitefish with the rugaru excluded - was when I'd bring up Sam...

Ah. It has something to do with his dead brother. Which means we're not allowed to talk about it.

Anyway, where was I?

Right, my graphic novel. It's about these creatures. Well, they're more like beings. Gods of gods, so to speak. They're all really old and really tired, but...

"I can't believe you let Fenrir get away."

" _Seriously!?_ "

That was out loud, wasn't it?

Dean frowns up at me, indicating that I did, indeed, say that out loud. Well, no need to stop there. I don't care if he's on drugs and has a broken arm. I've officially reached my limit.

"You barely fought him!" I angrily point out. "He knocked me down, too. I didn't let him get away, he just did."

The frown on Dean's face deepens.

"Watch the tone," he tells me with a warning voice.

"Watch the tone?" I repeat, my anger gathering. " _Watch the tone?_ You're kidding me, right? I've taken so much shit from you and you expect me to 'watch my tone'? You've been riding my ass this whole time and not once have you said 'good job' or 'nice try'. You haven't even thanked me for saving your skin from that dragon!"

"I didn't need you to save me," Dean defends, rising to a more upright position in preparation for an argument. "I could have taken care of it myself."

"You know what?" I begin as I pull my laptop to a close. I shove it, along with the few belongs scattered about the room, into my black backpack. "Fuck this shit. I'm done."

"Ben, wait," Dean calls after me but doesn't move from his seat. "Ben! Where are you going?"

"Away," I spit as I pull the door open with a hard yank. "Thanks for nothing."

This is what I leave him with. A few harsh words and a slammed door.

Where _am_ I going?

\- - - - -

There aren't any eastbound busses until morning. The station is technically closed for the night, so I can't even buy a ticket to anywhere. Which is probably for the best since I'm having a hard time remembering exactly where Dean's storage garage is. You know, the one currently housing my pickup.

So I sit on the banks of the Mississippi, idly watching the city lights of St. Paul flicker on and think about what I'm doing.

I don't mean to be dramatic. When I envisioned myself parting ways from Dean, I pictured it going a little more civilly. Like when you hand in your notice to your employer. A polite "thanks for the opportunity but it's time for me to move on" and maybe a handshake. Not a mini freak out and a "fuck this shit".

I also didn't want to leave him all doped up with one good arm. But he is Dean Winchester. If anyone can fend for themselves in this life with a single arm, it's him. Sure he could probably use some extra help, but he'll be fine without me.

No, I didn't want to leave this way. But I can't stand the negativity anymore. I just can't.

"Hey."

The deep, gruff voice causes me to snap my head up, taking me by surprise. Just to my right stands Dean with an apologetic look on his face.

"How'd you find me?" I ask, turning my eyes back on the cityscape before me.

"I'm a hunter," he says, his voice more coherent than when I left him. "It's kind of what I do."

He takes a seat beside me with an uncomfortable groan and together we sit in silence.

"Listen," he begins at last with a sigh. "I know I've been kind of hard on you. And I'm sorry. It's just..." He pauses to contemplate his next words. "That woman I told you about back in Whitefish. That kid she had. He'd... um... he'd be about your age now. He was the closest thing I ever had to a kid. You remind me of him." Pause. "Sometimes I look at you and I think how horrible - how guilty - I would feel if he ended up in the life."

"So you feel the need to be a dick to me because I remind you of your ex-girlfriend's kid?" I question and Dean sighs.

"I'm not trying to be a dick," he defends himself. "I know I've been hard on you, but believe it or not, I'm trying to protect you. Teach you a few things."

"Tough love?" I guess with an unenthusiastic air.

"It's how my dad taught me," he tells me with a soft sigh. "I never claimed to be a good teacher. Or father figure. I do mean it when I say I'm sorry. And... you're doing a good job."

Finally. A little credit. And all I had to do to get it was freak out at him.

"I appreciate that," I tell him. "I think. But, honestly, it's not just the way you treat me. Your attitude. It just sucks. I know you've been through a lot, man, but you're not a pleasant person to be around. And you don't talk about, well, anything."

"I didn't know you were an aspiring shrink," he grumbles as he pulls his flask out of his jacket.

"I mean, you don't talk about _anything_ ," I say as I roll my eyes. "I've been riding with you for months now and I still don't know much about you beyond the stories I've heard."

Dean listens to me but remains silent.

"Seriously," I continue. "Riding with you is actually kind of lonely."

"What do you want me to say?" Dean asks.

"I don't know, man," I reply. "Anything. Tell me about your first hunt. Tell me about your ex. Talk to me about Sam. Just talk to me."

Dean ponders this but, again, remains silent. The look on his face is hesitant and I know what he's thinking. He's thinking my request for conversation is too much. He's thinking he doesn't want to talk about anything with anyone, because he's spent so much time and whiskey trying to forget it all.

"Right," I say when it becomes abundantly apparent he's not going to respond. I stand up and grab my backpack, throwing a strap around my right shoulder. "Thanks anyway. Maybe I'll see you at Garth's some time."

I turn to walk away when Dean stops me with something completely unexpected.

"Metatron didn't kill Sam."

This causes me to stop dead in my tracks. The story that has circulated amongst hunters for nearly ten years goes something like Sam and the scribe took each other out. That Sam Winchester stabbed Metatron who, with his last breath, tore the hunter to molecule sized pieces that were scattered across the cosmos.

"Metatron isn't even dead," Dean continues with a remorseful voice. "He's locked up in Heaven's prison."

Slowly I turn to glance down at Dean. He stares distantly at the reflection of the city lights that dance in the river before him.

"But, Crowley told me..." I begin.

"Crowley told you what I asked him to tell you," Dean cuts me off. "Who do you think started the Metatron story?"

"If Metatron didn't kill Sam," I begin as my brows fold in confusion. "Who did?"

For a long minute, Dean doesn't say anything. I begin to wonder if he even heard me at all when he whispers the most unexpected thing yet.

"I did."

What?

" _What?_ " I gasp in a shocked disbelief.

It does kind of explain a lot. His excessive drinking habits. His perpetually bitter attitude. His loud distaste for talking about or hearing mention of his brother.

"How... why..." I fumble over a heavy tongue, uncertain what to ask or how to ask it. "Was he...?"

"Sammy was just Sammy," Dean slowly shares with me and it's not hard to tell he struggles with his own words. "I wasn't me at the time. I mean, I was. But I was different." Pause. "I was a demon."

_What!?_

"How... how is that even possible?" I have to ask and Dean sighs.

"It's a long story," he quietly replies, his eye still fixed far away from me. "But I was. And all Sammy tried to do was cure me. And I killed him." He chokes as the difficult words come tumbling out of his mouth and he's forced to remember the one thing he's tried so hard for so long to forget. "I didn't just kill him, I destroyed him."

In the soft glow of the city lights I can see a single, fat tear stream down the right side of his face. He turns away when he feels my stares, furiously wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"How did you... you know," I timidly begin to question. "How did you get back to being human?"

"Crowley," Dean responds with a short huff that almost sounds like a soft laugh, as if this fact has never ceased to amaze him.

"Crowley?" I echo with uncertainty. I guess that would explain their weird friendship.

"I know," Dean says. "The last person you'd expect to cure a demon. But he did. I still wonder if I should be thankful or pissed off about it."

"Why'd he cure you?" I have to know. Crowley seems like the kind of guy who would take every demon he could get.

"I guess I was too much," Dean replies with a deflated sigh. "Even for him."

I'm going to assume Crowley felt like his throne was being threatened. Mostly I'm going to assume this because it's Crowley. The King of Hell doesn't do favors out of the kindness of his black heart.

I'm also going to simply settle on my own assumptions for now because I can tell how much this conversation is killing Dean. He's already shared more than I asked him to. I don't need to send him over the edge by prying into every little detail.

"Cas disappeared shortly after I..." He trails off, then pauses to swallow past a lump that's grown in his throat. "Sometimes I think God didn't completely abandon us. That he's still here. Making sure I live through every hunt. Through every day, every year. Punishing me for what I did to Sam."

Talk about self loathing.

"It's been a long, lonely ten years," he continues. "For a while there, I was pretty much just waiting for my turn to die. Until..."

He trails off. Instead of finishing his sentence, he takes a long swig of whiskey from the open flask he's been clutching this whole time.

I don't need him to go on to know what he means.

_Until I came along._

He has, in so many words, just informed me I gave him a purpose. He was lonely and ready for whatever afterlife awaited him... until I gave him a reason to keep going. In me he found someone to protect, someone to teach. Someone that didn't make him feel so alone.

I don't care if he never actually says these things out loud. He doesn't have to. His message is loud and clear, and it's the nicest thing anyone's ever not said to me.

A still, calming silence falls between us as I let everything sink in. Dean keeps his eye on the lights in the water. I keep my eyes on Dean. Finally, once I've had enough time to truly digest the overload of personal information and unspoken compliments, I reach out and gently place a ginger hand on his shoulder.

"Let's go back to the motel," I quietly suggest.

Dean remains silent but gives me a small nod to acknowledge he's heard me.

I have a feeling things are going to be a lot different from now on. For the first time since we hit the road together, I have a good feeling about this partnership.


	20. Meet The Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben drags Dean to dinner at his mom's house. Dean is not entirely prepared to encounter Lisa, but nothing can prepare him for meeting Ben's stepdad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick notes to those of you who originally read this on fanfiction.net. I may have promised a few of you and additional bonus chapter. Unfortunately I have decided not to post it as the chapter was intended to be a setup for a prequel that I am no longer planning on writing. I may, in the future, decide to continue writing a prequel for the story, however at this time I have bitten off more than I can chew as far as writing goes. Terribly sorry for the false promise. Please don't hold it against me. For those of you who are too curious to wait and see if I do continue with a prequel, shoot me a message. The "bonus" chapters have been written and I would not mind sharing them on request.

_Michigan_

The month that follows would, to most hunters, seem uneventful. We spend some time reloading our ammunition supply, making salt rounds to fend off ghosts, silver bullets to put down shifters and wolves, and even a few dozen bullets with the dragons blood I collected back in Charleston. We take a few easy ghost cases to stay busy, one in the small town of Algona, Iowa, another in Green Bay, Wisconsin and one in Ishpeming, Michigan. Stuff that would make most hunters yawn. Even Dean is itching to get his cast off and get back to a more thrilling, action packed existence.

While I can't deny I'm looking forward to picking up a more challenging case, I've throughly enjoyed the down time. As unexciting as it may seem to most, it's been far from uneventful. For me, anyway. All thanks to Dean.

While he hasn't made a complete 180 turn in his ways, he's making a genuine effort. He catches himself when he gets a bit too angsty and gives himself a few moments to cool down before rephrasing whatever it is he'd said. He asks me for my opinion on cases, and not because he's trying to test me like he did when we first teamed up. I think he's even cut back on drinking a little. Not much, but a full fifth seems to last just a little longer.

I think the best part of all is that he actually talks to me. He tells me stories about hunting with his dad. He talks a bit about Castiel, who may or may not be dead. He even shares a few stories of him and Sam. The more he talks, the easier it becomes for him. The easier it becomes for him, the less bitter he becomes. And the less bitter he becomes, the more he feels like...

I don't know.

Family, I guess.

Bonus: I've gotten to take shifts driving the Impala. For real driving it. Not just to the hospital or to the liquor store. I'm talking highway driving. Some days Dean will let me take the wheel for hours.

Like right now. I'm driving southbound on I-69 in Michigan's lower peninsula, coming from the upper peninsula where we just wrapped up a ghost case in Ishpeming. Dean's let me drive through a good chunk of the state.

I stick to 69 for a while until signs for I-94 start to appear. First chance I get, I make a right and start heading east. This does not go unnoticed.

"Where you going?" Dean questions with a brow raised in suspicion.

"I thought we could take this road for a while," I vaguely respond. Dean frowns.

"But 69's a quicker shot out of Michigan," he argues. "94'll take us clear over to Lake Michigan."

"So?" I say. "What's wrong with Lake Michigan?"

"Nothing," Dean shrugs. "I guess. As long as you don't mind driving through Kalamazoo and..." He trails off for a moment as he realizes why I've taken a detour from our main route. "Battle Creek," he finishes with a hard sigh. "Ben, are you taking us to your mother's house?"

"Maybe," I respond. Dean gives me a stern look and I sigh in defeat.

"Okay, fine," I admit as I roll my eyes. "I'm going to my mom's house."

Dean let's loose a frustrated groan as he sinks into his seat and I can tell he's attempting to cool his temper before responding to my unannounced plans.

"Come on, man," I half plead with him. "It's a free meal and a free place to stay."

"You don't think it would be at all awkward for you to show up with me to your folk's house, looking for a place to crash?" Dean calmly but sternly argues.

"Why would it be?"

"Dude," Dean says, pointing at his face. "Forty-five year old with an eyepatch. Don't you think that comes across as a bit, I don't know, creepy?"

"No way," I shake my head. "We'll just say you're my boss. It'll be fine."

"I'm not cool with this," Dean sullenly voices his opinion as he stares out the window.

"Come on," I say again. "It's gonna be dark soon. We'd probably be stopping somewhere around here anyway." I pause to glance at Dean whose reaction hasn't changed. "She's a cool lady. She'd be fine with it. She'll love you."

"I bet she would," Dean grumbles.

"What?" I have to ask as my brows fold in confusion.

"Nothing," Dean shakes his head. "Fine. Let's go meet the parents." Pause. "I'm sleeping in the Impala, though."

\- - - - -

"What's your step-dad's name?" Dean politely but begrudgingly and somewhat nervously asks as we near the place my mom and step-father own.

"Jim," I respond. "He's an astrophysicist."

Dean lets out an unimpressed snort as I slowly navigate through the suburban streets.

"Sounds interesting," he mumbles sarcastically.

"It kind of is," I defend my stepfather and his career choice.

"Yeah?" Dean returns with a challenging tone. "What do they do?"

"They study stars?" I half state, half guess.

Honestly, I'm a little hazy on exactly what astrophysicists do. But Jim took me to an observatory once, the one up at MSU in Lansing. The way he talked about the "heavenly bodies" as he pointed out constellations and galaxies gave me the impression that, to him, his career was far more spiritual than scientific. Like he was always looking up because what he searches for surpasses the physics of the universe.

"This is it, huh?" Dean says as I pull the Impala to the curb and park beside a blue, two story home with a clean cut lawn and white picket fence.

"Yep," I confirm, killing the ignition.

"You always live here?" he questions curiously.

"No," I shake my head. "We used to live across town. We moved when I was a senior. My mom's always liked to move around a lot."

Dean stares at the house with a nervous air about him.

"You okay?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he mumbles with a nod. "Why?"

"You seem a little edgy," I comment as I pass him the keys.

"I'm still not super excited about this," he admits, digging out his flask. He pauses to take a long, hard swallow. "There," he says, wiping his lips with the sleeve of his jacket. "That's better."

I roll my eyes as we climb out of the car. I shouldn't have expected anything less, really. At least he's somewhat willing to participate in a brief visit with my family. Last-month Dean would have ditched my ass at the mere suggestion.

"Novak?" Dean mutters the name painted in black on the mailbox just outside the fence. "I thought your last name was Braden?"

"It is," I nod. "Novak is Jim's last name."

"Jim Novak..." Dean repeats my stepfather's name. "Jim Novak. Why does that name sound familiar?"

"I don't know," I reply with a shrug as we slowly saunter up the front walk. "Anyway, my mom's name is Lisa. She's a yoga instructor."

"Right," Dean says with a nod.

"And they think I'm a truck driver," I go on as we approach the front door.

"Truck driver," Dean echoes. "Got it."

I give a hard but pleasant knock on the white painted door.

"I feel stupid," Dean comments with a tense tone as we wait for someone to answer the door.

"Dude, relax," I mutter. "They'll love you."

The door creeks open to expose the early forties looking, blue eyed man I know as Jim.

"Ben!" his deep voice cries with an air of excitement as a warm smile forms on his lips. "What a surprise! What are you doing here?"

"Just driving down from the U.P.," I respond. "Thought I'd swing by for the night, if that's okay?"

"Of course," Jim nods. "Your mother will be delighted to see you."

"Jim, this is Dean," I introduce my stepfather to my hunting partner.

Glancing over at Dean, I notice how wide his eye has gotten. The look of utter shock plastered across his face. The rosy color that rises in his cheeks.

Either Dean's choking or he knows Jim.

Jim, on the other hand, seems oblivious to this. He sticks his right hand out with a polite and pleasant smile spread across his face as he patiently waits for Dean to accept his friendly gesture. For an awkward moment, Dean just stares down at Jim's hand with a look of disbelief. I eventually have to elbow the hunter to get him to accept the handshake, which he does with hesitation.

"It's nice to meet you, Dean," Jim attempts to make the hunter feel welcome.

"Sure," Dean says, his voice somewhat distant. "You too."

"Well, come on in," Jim says, widening the door to let us through. "I'll let your mother know you're here."

"What's with you?" I hiss at Dean once Jim has retreated beyond earshot. "You know him?"

"No," Dean hastily shakes his head. "He just looks like somebody I used to know."

I don't quite believe him for some reason. At least, I wouldn't if it weren't for the fact that I'm pretty sure Jim's never had much—if any—involvement with the supernatural. The guy's a scientist, for god's sake. They have a general tendency to not believe in things like ghosts and monsters.

"Ben!"

I look for the source of the voice and find the dark haired, dark eyed woman coming down the hall from the kitchen.

"Hi, mom," I return her greeting before she wraps her arms around me, giving me a long, hard embrace.

"It's so good to see you!" she tells me with excitement, letting me go to look me in the eye. "You should call more."

"I know, I know," I say as I roll my eyes. "Mom, this is my boss, Dean."

Mom turns to look at Dean, a wide smile on her lips as she extends her right hand to him. Dean swallows hard as he timidly accepts her friendly gesture. The way he looks at her isn't with shock or disbelief, as it was with Jim. If anything, he looks a little... remorseful.

"It's nice to meet you, Dean," mom says as the hunter slowly shakes her hand. "I hear you've been keeping my son busy."

"Y-yes m'am," he stammers.

"Call me Lisa," she corrects him, her smile never wavering as Dean stares at her. "I trust you're keeping an eye on him?"

"Of course," Dean responds in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"Good," mom nods, looking back at me. "Your timing is perfect. I was just about to start dinner. You boys want something to drink? We've got wine, beer, tea..."

"Beer me," I reply with enthusiasm. Mom smiles at me before giving Dean an expectant look.

"Beer sounds good," he agrees, his tone almost shy. "Thanks."

As soon as mom turns to retrieve our beverages, I shoot Dean a questioning stare.

"Dude," I speak with a harsh, hushed tone. "What's your deal?"

"Nothing," Dean grumbles.

"Nothing my ass," I call him out on his lie. "You're acting really weird."

"It's nothing," Dean growls sternly, closing off any possibility of him discussing his bizarre behavior. "Let's just get this dinner over with and get out of here."

I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jim is Cas.


	21. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben overhears a conversation between Dean & "Jim" that alters the young hunter's life.

_[Still] Battle Creek,Michigan_

Dean's jaw flexes as he stares down Jim with an intense glare. Jim gives mom an awkward, uncertain glance. Mom shrugs and gives Dean a good looking over, as if she recognizes him but can't figure out why. Dean takes his eye off of Jim for long enough to give mom a sorrowful but longing gaze.

Me, I silently watch everyone look around at each other, slowly chewing bites of chicken Parmesan.

I'm no psychic, but I totally called it. Most awkward dinner ever.

"So, Dean," mom speaks up at last, clearing her throat. "How... um... how did you... you know." She pauses to point at her left eye.

"Mom!" I cry, mortified by her question.

"What?" she returns, although she does look somewhat embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she goes on. "I don't mean to be rude. I'm just curious."

"A griffin took it," Dean replies, staring at Jim as he says this. He lifts his pint glass to his lips as mom and Jim look between each other with a note of mild concern. I cover my eyes with my hand for a moment, embarrassed by the entire situation.

"I'm joking," Dean lies. "I lost it in Afghanistan."

"Oh," mom says with a breath of relief. "How long were you over there?"

"Long enough," is Dean's vague reply, not interested in elaborating the lie he told to protect my own lie.

A few minutes of awkward silence passes as Dean sips his beer and my family and I quietly chew our dinner.

"So, Dean," Jim decides to break the tension by continuing to prod the hunter for personal information. "You're Ben's boss? How'd you get into trucking?"

"You could say it's a family business," Dean says, his eye narrowed as he gives another hazy response. "What about you, Jim? How'd you get into astrophysics? Was it Star Wars?"

I glare at Dean whose too busy staring down my stepfather to notice. Jim gives a small, fond smile, finding nothing wrong with the question.

"I do like Star Wars," he easily admits. "But no. I've always felt connected to the cosmos."

Dean just blinks at Jim and I can't tell if Dean either doesn't believe him or if he finds Jim's response to be lame.

"This is really good," I attempt to distract from Dean's seemingly growing hostility towards my stepfather. "Is it a new recipe?"

"Thank you, sweetie," mom says with her warm smile. "It is. I got it online."

"It's really good," I repeat, stalling to come up with another way to lighten the tension. "Way better than the food we've been eating on the road."

I give Dean an expectant look, hoping he'll catch on and give my mother the same compliment. Instead he stares between Jim and mom like he has the entire night.

"Is everything okay, Dean?" mom asks. "You've hardly touched you food."

"No," Dean shakes his head as if she were snapping him out of a daze. "I mean, everything's fine. It's delicious. I just have a touch of heartburn."

"Oh," mom says. "I think we have some Tums in the bathroom if you'd like."

"I think I'll manage, thanks."

More awkward silence. More awkward stares.

Maybe this is Dean's way of punishing me for dragging him here.

"So," Dean decides it's his turn to break the silence, using a somewhat hostile tone. "Tell me. How did a Star Wars geek end up with a yoga instructor?"

Why? Why is he doing this to me? Why is he allowing a month's worth of self improvement to unravel in front of my parents?

"Dude," I hiss, something Dean ignores as he stares across the table, waiting to hear how my parents met.

"Well," mom slowly begins, somewhat uncertain about Dean's attitude. "I hit him with my car."

Dean cocks a brow at this but says nothing, waiting for a more detailed story.

"Ben and I were on vacation up north his senior year," mom continues. "Jim was living up there at the time. I was paying more attention to my GPS than the road and I accidentally bumped into him."

"Not too hard, though," Jim cuts in with a fond smile he flashes at my mother. "She felt terrible and when she asked if there was anything she could do to make it right, I told her the only way she could make it up to me was if she let me show her around."

Dean just stares at them, his teeth clenched and his jaw flexing.

"Huh," the disgruntled hunter speaks at last, gripping his pint glass tightly. "Isn't that just... peachy."

My eyes grow wide as I stare down my hunting partner with a horrified look on my face. Again this goes unnoticed as he tilts his glass back and takes a long gulp.

I don't know what his problem is, but I'm seriously regretting this visit.

"Ben, honey," mom begins, finding herself somewhat uncomfortable by Dean's gathering bitterness. "Why don't you help me clear the table?"

I hesitate when I notice Dean is, again, staring Jim down.

"... okay," I finally agree and take up as many plates and dishes as I can carry.

Should I be worried Dean probably has a gun in his jacket pocket? He's looked like he's been itching to throw down with Jim all night. I can't for the life of me figure out why, but right now I'm a little concerned for Jim's safety. Even with his right arm in a cast, no way would Jim stand a chance in a fight against Dean.

"So," mom begins once we've reached the privacy of the kitchen. "Your boss. He seems..."

"I'm really sorry about him," I apologize. "I don't know what's wrong with him. He's not usually like this." Pause. "Anymore."

"Is it his arm?" mom casually asks as she busies herself scraping leftovers into plastic containers.

"Yeah," I quickly reply, a little baffled I hadn't come up with that myself. "The painkillers make him kind of grumpy."

I glance at my mom's expression to see she's totally bought the story.

"That's too bad," she speaks sympathetically. "How'd he break it?"

"Oh, you know. On the job."

I hate lying to mom, so I do it as seldom as possible.

Sometimes I wonder just who I'm trying to protect - her or me.

Mom's face turns thoughtful as we carefully package the uneaten remains of tonight's meal.

"Have you brought him here before?" she questions curiously.

"No, why?" I respond, handing her a dirty plate.

"He just looks kind of familiar," she tells me, her expression still preoccupied by ideas on why she thinks she's met Dean before.

"Don't you think you'd remember meeting a guy who wears an eyepatch?" I say and she shrugs.

"True," she admits, but doesn't dismiss the thought entirely.

I know what she means, though. First time I ever saw Dean, I knew I'd never met him but, at the same time I had this feeling we had run into each other before. That I had known him before that night at Garth's tavern.

Which, as I stated back then, is ridiculous. I couldn't possibly forget meeting someone like Dean Winchester. Right?

"Would you go see if they want desert?" mom asks as she begins placing empty dishes in the sink. "We have cherry pie and ice cream."

Pie. Thank god there's pie. That should cheer Dean up.

I return to the dining room but, to my surprise and horror, Dean and Jim aren't there.

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit._

I swirl around as I contemplate places they might be.

_Calm down, Ben. Jim's probably just showing off his telescope on the back patio. Dean's definitely not wailing on him..._

I make my way towards the sliding glass doors in the living room that open up to the back patio and find relief when I see Jim and Dean standing beside Jim's telescope.

_See? It's just as you thought. Nothing violent, just a little nerdy._

I move to slide the door open when their conversation compels me to stop and listen.

"You're quite the actor," Dean accuses Jim, his voice full of piss and vinegar. Jim lowers his gaze and stuffs his hands into the pocket of his kaki slacks.

"I know," Jim admits with a hint of shame behind his words.

"Jim Novak," Dean speaks. "You stole your vessel's identity?"

"It was easier than coming up with a new one," Jim says. "It's not like my vessel was using it."

_Vessel? What?_

I wait through the awkward silence that falls between the two, hoping my questions won't go unanswered.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean bursts at last, shaking with anger. "What the hell? I thought you were dead!"

Wait, did he just call him... Cas? As in, Castiel? The angel?

"I know," Jim—or, rather, Cas apparently—replies with a long sigh. "I'm sorry, Dean. Really, I am."

"Why?" Dean wants to know, his eye glistening in the soft glow of the patio light as tears begin to well. "Why did you abandon me?"

Jim or Cas or whoever the hell this guy is lets out a long, deep sigh as he looks up at the hunter.

"What you did to Sam," he gradually begins. "I'm sorry Dean, but I couldn't... I couldn't find it in myself to forgive you for that."

"That wasn't me," Dean tries to convince my angel stepdad. Or is he trying to convince himself? "That was demon me. I don't have the mark anymore. Crowley saved me since you apparently wouldn't."

Castiel looks deflated by this, but not completely. As if he feels bad, but still stands by his actions.

"I know," Cas nods. "Out of curiosity, who bears the mark now?"

"No one," Dean says with a frown, not particularly enthused to recount his nightmare. "Crowley found a way to transfer it to stone. Like he'd cure me if some one else was just going to wear it."

"Where is it now?" Castiel asks with great interest.

"Buried," Dean replies. "Deep. Somewhere no one will look." He pauses as the crease in his brows deepen. "That's not important right now. I wanna know why you left me for all these years. You obviously got your grace back in time. Why did you let me go on this whole time thinking you were gone?"

"I got some grace back," Castiel explains. "I'll never be at full capacity." Pause. Sigh. "And I told you."

"Right," Dean says. "Because you can't forgive what that other guy did. Do you know how alone I've been? How guilty I've felt about everything? Not just about Sam, but you, too. I wasn't around to help save you and that's been eating at me for almost ten years."

Castiel cocks his head to the side as he gives Dean a sympathetic look.

"I tried to kill myself," Dean goes on with a blend of fury and remorse in his voice as he points to the place his left eye used to be. "Hell, I've been trying to kill myself this whole time. I lost a fucking eye, you know."

"Yes," Cas nods with a saddened expression. "I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. Here," he says as he lifts his right hand and extends his middle and index fingers towards Dean's forehead. "Let me fix that..."

"No," Dean jerks his head away before the angel can lay his fingers on him. "It's too late."

Castiel drops his hand and gives Dean another pained but not completely sorrowful look.

"Dean, I'm sorry," he apologizes again. "I am. But I didn't abandon you. Not completely."

"How did you not completely abandon me?" Dean questions, angrily clenching his left fist.

"Can't you see what I've been doing?" Castiel wonders.

"Yeah," Dean bitterly spits. "I see you've gotten real cozy with Lisa."

If my brow hadn't furrowed at all during this alarming and completely unexpected conversation, it is now. Why would Dean find my mom's relationship with Jim/Cas upsetting?

"It's true," the angel easily admits with a nod. "I've gotten close to her. But I've been trying to protect them."

"Great job you're doing so far," Dean rolls his eye as the sarcastic words flow from his lips. "You know Ben's a freaking hunter, right?"

"Of course I do," Cas nods. "And he's doing a good job so far, from my understanding. He knows what's out there and how to protect himself." He pauses to gauge Dean's reaction which hasn't changed. "When you had me take their memories, that's all I could take. I couldn't erase the past, Dean. They might not remember you, but the things you hunt remember them. By erasing their memory of you, you took away their ability to defend themselves."

_**WHAT?!** _

I mean, I guess that's why I'd had a feeling I'd met Dean before. But still... _WHAT?!_

Dean's shoulders slump as he exhales heavily. His expression softens, wordlessly admitting that, whatever the angel meant, he was right.

"That's not all I've been doing," Castiel—the guy I've known as Jim for seven years—calmly continues as he motions to his telescope. "I've been looking for Sam."

Dean gives him a confused stare.

"What do you mean?" the hunter softly questions. "I... I destroyed him."

"Yes and no," Castiel responds. "Ever since I left his soul in the cage, it's been a bit... fragile. The pieces are still there. They're just scattered."

Dean glances down at the telescope, taken aback by this.

"Astrophysicist," he mutters to himself. "You've been looking at the cosmos."

"The angels haven't seen him in Heaven," Cas explains as Dean glances through the lens and up at the sky. "Crowley would have told you if he was in Hell. So I look up to the place he was last seen."

"The stars," Dean says with a short breath.

"Yes," Castiel nods. "I might have a hard time forgiving you, Dean, but I've never forgotten you. And I've never stopped caring about you."

Dean glances up to the angel with a mixed look of gratitude and pain.

"Why did you leave me?" Dean asks again, this time with a more gentle tone.

"Dean," Cas begins. "Have you ever thought about trying to forgive yourself?" He pauses to give Dean a chance to voice a response that never comes. "It might be easier for some people—or celestial beings—to forgive you if you started to."

Dean takes the angel's words into consideration.

" _Benjamin Braden!_ "

I jump as my heart rate spikes.

Perfect. I'm a hunter and my mom just got the jump on me.

"Are you eavesdropping?" mom scolds me as I turn to find her standing behind me with two plates of pie.

"Yes," I hesitantly respond. "You don't understand. They were talking about..."

"I don't need to hear it," mom says as she pushes past me, sliding the glass door open. "But I think you owe them an apology."

"Mom, wait!" I call after her, chasing her onto the patio. "They're not who you think they are!"

"I don't know what's gotten into you," mom scolds again, giving me a disappointed look as she places the plates on the glass top patio table not too far away from Dean and Not Jim. "But you owe them an apology."

Dean and Cas give me a questioning look as my mom folds her arms across her chest.

Great. I'm twenty-five years old being shamed by my mom into apologizing to two people—or beings or whatever—that have been lying to me for as long as I remember knowing them.

Fine. You want an apology, mom? You got one.

"I'm sorry," I look at Dean and Castiel through narrowed eyes. "I just heard everything you were just talking about."

Dean looks a little sick. Castiel, on the other hand, seems more curious than anything.

"And I wanna know," I continue, pointing at Dean. "Who you are to my mom and me."

The hunter and the angel exchange a hesitant, uncertain glance.

"Ben!" mom cries, appalled by my random and unexplained accusations. "What has gotten into you?"

"He's been lying to us," I tell my mom, my finger pointed at Castiel. "His name isn't Jim and he's not an astrophysicist. He's an angel named Castiel. And him -" I point again to Dean. "- he knows us."

"Ben, you're being ridiculous," my mom attempts to tell me, but I ignore her.

"I want my memory back," I demand from the angel. "My mom's, too."

Dean's brows fold as he glances at Castiel, silently begging him not to do it. Castiel purses his lips as he debates his options; listen to Dean and leave our memories blank, or listen to me and give them back.

"They're our memories," I point out angrily as my mom stares at me with a concerned look, clearly certain I've lost my mind. "You had no right to take them from us and you have no right to keep them."

"He's got a point, Dean," Castiel admits, and Dean's expression falls into a remorseful embarrassment.

"Jim?" mom hesitantly questions. "What's going on?"

"Ben's right," Castiel says with a sigh as he glances towards the ground for a fleeting moment of humility. "My real name is Castiel. I am an angel of The Lord."

For a moment, my mom silently looks between the three of us, at first with a confused apprehension. After a minute or two, her expression looses most of its worry but maintains a mildly perplexed crease in her brow.

"You're joking," she states her own conclusion with a forced smile. "You guys are trying to play a joke on me."

Castiel sighs again as he steps closer towards both my mother and me, his sorrowful eyes fixed square on my mom.

"I'm sorry, Lisa," he apologizes. "I just want you to know I really do love you. I hope that still means something after I return what I never should have taken."

"What are you talking about?" mom questions as he reaches out towards both of us. "Jim, what's going on? What are you..."

Wordlessly, Castiel gingerly touches our foreheads with his index and middle fingers. The effects of his touch are instantaneous and overwhelming.

I'm eight again, and I'm being held captive by changelings, along with a whole bunch of other neighborhood kids and one woman, a real-estate agent. Just as I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to get myself and all these kids out of here, Dean Winchester—a younger, two eyed version of him—comes swooping in to save the day.

I'm eleven, maybe twelve. Dean Winchester—another younger, two eyed version of him—is living with us. The three of us are a family. For the first time in my life I have someone I can identify as my father and it feels right. Natural. And then, suddenly, Sam Winchester is standing in our kitchen. There's a djinn scare and we have to take shelter at Bobby Singer's house.

After that, we move to Michigan. Dean's hardly home. He starts hunting again. One time, when he does come home, he's not really Dean. He's aggressive and weird. He's only home for long enough to freak us out. He shoves me into a wall with an inhuman force and flees.

He comes home maybe once after that. I don't really see him again, not until mom and I are nabbed by demons. More specifically, by Crowley. My mom becomes possessed and, just as Dean comes to save the day, she stabs herself. Dean hands me his sawed off shot gun as he collects my wounded mother and tells me to shoot anyone who stands between us and the exit. He tells me I'm doing a great job.

And then nothing. Like a ghost he vanishes. He's just gone. The next time I see him, he's aged, bitter and missing one eye.

I blink furiously. I've been taken back years into the past. Only a few seconds have passed since Castiel replaced our memories of Dean, but I feel like I've been gone for days.

I stare at the hunter with a dropped jaw. He looks between my mom and me with an uncertain expression. He's not proud of what he did to us. It's not hard to see the regret in his eye. But there's a sliver of hope that we will, somehow, forgive him.

"Dean," mom whispers in shock as she stares with an unblinking disbelief at the man she used to be so madly in love with.

"Hi, Lisa," Dean timidly says.

Mom slowly strides over to him, her eyes locked into his. She stops only when they're inches apart. For a moment, it looks as if she's going to kiss him.

And then, with all the strength she can gather, she slaps him across the cheek.


	22. More Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben learns Dean and Castiel aren't the only ones keeping secrets from him.

_[Still] Battle Creek, Michigan_

Dean rubs his stubble kissed cheek in the spot my mom's hand just assaulted.

"I deserve that," he says.

"You're damn right you do," mom says, glaring at him through narrowed eyes as she speaks.

Mom looks pissed. She looks relieved. She looks like she wants to wrap her arms around him and whisper "thank god you're alright" before she slaps him again.

I can relate, to a certain extent. I too am torn. Part of me wants to breathe a sigh of relief that Dean's still alive. Another part of me wants to sock him in the jaw. Another part of me still is a little glad there's a reason I got into hunting beyond "I had a hunch".

For an awkward, silent moment, mom and I stare at Dean with a blend of relief and betrayal laced across our faces. Dean glances between us with a shameful remorse before looking to Castiel, wordlessly begging for help. The angel's eyes fall to the concrete below which he stares at for a brief moment before blinking sheepishly up at mom. Mom doesn't notice this. Her focus is solely on the embarrassed hunter standing before her.

"How could you?" she finally articulates one of the many questions on her mind.

"I'm sorry, Lisa," Dean tries to apologize, but doesn't elaborate beyond that. As if he's sorry, but not really at the same time.

"Why?" mom asks.

"I was trying to protect you," Dean easily responds.

"By taking our memories?" mom grows increasingly upset. "That doesn't even make sense!"

It doesn't. I mean, I know mom and Dean's breakup was kind of rough. And I know it's not the most pleasant memory to have. But wiping our minds of him completely? That was downright dangerous. Anything could have come for us at any time and neither mom nor I would have known what the hell was going on or how to kill it (not until I became a hunter, anyway).

"Selfish asshole," I mutter under my breath. The way mom looks at me when I say this, it's like she almost completely forgot I've been standing next to her this whole time.

"Wait," she blinks between Dean and me as she pieces together the reality I've been trying to hide from her. "If you're working with him... Ben, are you a hunter?"

"... yes," I begrudgingly admit, lowering my eyes to the ground.

"Oh... my god..." mom breathes, unsure what to think of this.

"That's partially why I did it," Dean speaks up. "I'd already gotten you too involved. I really messed things up for you and I couldn't bear the thought of Ben turning into someone like me."

"Load of good that did," mom snorts as she rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest as the words slip out.

"I know," Dean nods. "He still found his way here. To the life." He pauses to give me a soft smile. "You should know he's a good hunter."

I might be pissed at Dean, but he is still one of the best hunters that ever lived and a compliment from him still makes me feel good about myself.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" mom yells, killing the warm, fuzzy feelings of pride I momentarily got to experience.

Dean doesn't respond. It's a rhetorical question. Or it's a trap. There's no right answer for this and he knows it.

My anger towards Dean softens some when the disappointment my mom feels for me starts to sink in. I always imagined her being proud if she ever discovered I kill monsters and ghosts. I guess that was before I remembered the real reason I got into it in the first place.

It's only natural that I did become a hunter. Dean's the closest thing I ever had to a father. Lots of kids want to grow up to be like their dad. Even if I couldn't remember him, I continued to strive for that hidden goal. I wanted to be a hero like him, and I wanted to make him proud.

"Wait," mom stops to give me a suspicious look. "Did you remember him?"

"No," I shake my head, my brows folding as I do so.

"Then how are you a hunter?" mom can't figure out. I shrug.

"Your memories weren't exactly taken away," Castiel speaks up and all eyes fall to him. "Nothing in this world could actually permanently take a person's memory, not even angels. What I did was more of a memory block. They were always there, you just couldn't see them. Ben obviously remembered something about the supernatural without realizing it was a memory..." He begins to trail off when mom sends him a deep, unamused glare. "... I'm sleeping on the couch tonight, aren't I?"

"Oh yeah," mom nods, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. "I can't believe you thought this was a good idea. I can't believe you kept this from us!"

"I know, I'm sorry," the angel takes his turn at apologizing. "I was a little distracted at the time. I should have known better."

Dean's brows crumple as he realizes Castiel isn't going to even try to defend him.

"It's not as if I've been the only one keeping secrets," Castiel calmly but firmly states.

For a moment, mom doesn't say anything. She studies her husband as the look of anger slowly turns into shock.

"What... what do you mean?" she asks with a slow hesitation. The kind of hesitation that says she knows exactly what he's talking about. And it makes her nervous.

"You know what I mean," Castiel calls her out as Dean and I send her suspicious, questioning looks.

Mom's arms slowly begin to relax, hanging slack at her sides as she nervously stalls. I cock a brow as Dean blinks in curiosity. Castiel gives her an expectant look, waiting for her confession.

"About Ben's real father," he tries to help her bring the truth out.

"What's he talking about, mom?" I gradually ask as my brows return to their confused frown.

Mom's never been keen on talking about my real father. By which I mean I think she maybe mentioned him once my whole life when I was six or seven, and even then it was only because I wouldn't stop asking about him. She told me he was a bar-back working in a biker bar. His name she never mentioned, or whether or not he even knew about me. He was just this faceless, nameless sperm donor whose existence we basically refused to acknowledge.

And suddenly the one thing I've thought I knew about the man I share DNA with might be wrong. The faceless man I've gone nearly twenty years thinking was my father is not, in fact, my dad. The way mom's face has paled, I can only assume my real father has a face and a familiar one at that.

"Ben," she begins softly, timidly. "I haven't been very honest with you about your real father."

"You haven't exactly been open about me with any father," I point out as I take a turn at folding my arms across my chest.

Mom sighs at this before awkwardly glancing over at Dean who stares back. After a while, Dean's face begins to fall as his expression fills with understanding and a fire ignites in his eye. The way his face subtly begins to void itself of color, the way mom's eyes stare shamefully at the ground, I already know the unspoken truth.

My heart begins to race as mom finally looks back up at me.

"Ben, your real father..." she begrudgingly begins. "Your real father is Dean."

My jaw drops. I want to say something, but what? That I'm relieved the guy that helped create me isn't some low-life deadbeat? That I'm thrilled I'm directly related not only to Dean Winchester but an entire family of badass heroes? That I'm extremely pissed off mom hid this from me? From us?

"What..." Dean takes an opportunity to speak up when I remain silent, shaking his head in disbelief. "Why... Why didn't you tell me?" He pauses to turn to Castiel, a rosy color rising to his cheeks as his brows fold. "Why didn't _you_ tell me?"

"The timing never seemed quite right," the angel explains without remorse. "There was the apocalypse, then Eve and my quest to find Purgatory. And then you had me take their memories. After that, it seemed... _unwise_ to bring it up."

Dean looks dissatisfied with Castiel's response, but accepts it anyway. The answers he really wants to hear can come only from mom.

"Why?" he questions again, attempting to keep his tone calm despite the fact he begins to quiver with rage. Mom purses her lips as she chews on her own response.

"It's... complicated," is how she begins, to which Dean rolls his eye.

"Then uncomplicate it for me," he demands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Look, I'm sorry," mom says with a mildly defensive air. "I am. When you showed up at Ben's birthday party, I froze. For eight years it was just Ben and me. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't complicated. And then you showed up and I panicked. I didn't want you walking in out of nowhere, demanding rights to a kid you had never been there for. I didn't want you..."

"You didn't want me complicating your life," Dean finishes for her in a low growl. "Fine. I get it. But what about after that? What about that entire year we spent together? Why didn't you tell me then? What stopped you from telling me the entire time I was with you?"

Mom nervously bites her lip. She doesn't want to say. But she knows, one way or another, she has to.

"I loved you, Dean," she begins with something she hopes will soften his building rage. "I still do. I always will. But when we were together, I never fully trusted you."

Dean's face crumples into a painful disappointment as the truth stings him.

"I'm sorry," mom apologizes again. "I just didn't. I pretended like you were done with ghosts and monsters and I pretended like we could be like that forever. A family. But deep down I knew you couldn't stay away from that life. I knew, even before Sam showed up, at some point you'd go back. I knew it would be hard enough on Ben to see you go. I didn't want to make it any harder. Any more..."

"Complicated ," Dean finishes for her again, this time with a bitter and short breath. "Right."

He gives me an awkward glance. I blink back at him, still at a loss for words. The way he gazes at me, I can tell he too has yet to figure out just what to say.

Is this the part where we give each other a long, overdue embrace? Where we breath a sigh of overjoyed solace and take comfort in the fact we'd finally found each other? Or is this the part where things just get plain uncomfortable between us?

Before too long, Dean finds it too difficult to look at me. He looks away, silently answering the last question. Despite everything we've been through, knowing we're bound by blood has, for some reason, compromised our relationship.

Or is it because of everything we've been through that makes this all so awkward?

"I have to go," Dean whispers at last.

" _What_?" mom and I cry in unison, alarmed by his response.

"I need to get out of here," he says, his voice a little clearer and more firm. "I have to go."

He hastily rushes past us, throwing open the glass door to make his escape through the house. Mom and I exchange a dumbfounded look before glancing over at Castiel. The angel, while clearly disappointed by his old friend's actions, does not seem the least bit surprised.

"Dean," mom calls as she begins to chase the hunter down. "Dean, wait!"

I follow, even though I'm still at a loss for words.

"You find out you have a son and this is how you handle it?!" mom cries after him as we follow him through the house.

Dean doesn't respond. He doesn't even falter in his speedy getaway. If anything, his pace quickens.

"Dean!" mom shouts as he throws open the front door. "Answer me!"

But he doesn't. He walks back into the cool night and races for his Impala.

"Dean!"

This time he stops. I don't know if it's because he's finally come up with an excuse as to why he's running away, or if it's because I finally found my voice and he can't ignore his copilot.

"I'm sorry, Ben," he tells me, his green eye glistening with unshed tears in the dim light of the street lamps. "I never wanted this for you."

"What?" I have to ask. "My genetic makeup?"

"The life, Ben," he says with a firm tone. "I didn't want it for you then and I sure as hell don't want it for you now."

He pulls open the trunk, calmly yet somehow forcefully pulling forth my backpack. He gently sets it on the sidewalk before he latches the rear and makes his way to the drivers side door.

"Dean!" I scream in horror and I can feel my eyes widen as I watch him climb inside. "Don't leave me here! You can't just leave me here! Dean!"

He doesn't look at me as he calmly starts the engine.

"Dean!" I cry again as my feet begin to pound the sidewalk in a mad dash to prevent him from leaving. Again, he doesn't look at me as he pulls the shift stick into drive and departs from his parking spot.

" _Dean!_ " I shout as I attempt to chase him down, running into the street behind him. I can't see him, but I know he's not looking at me.

I can feel my heart break as I stare with wide eyes down the street at the Impala's tail lights. A lump forms in my throat as those red lights disappear from view and Dean vanishes from my life. My shoulders hunched in defeat, I try not to cry as I stand alone in the middle of the street, praying Dean will come back for me. Silently screaming to any god who'll listen, hoping beyond all hope that my dad did not just abandon me.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heartbroken Ben finds determination to keep on hunting & Castiel apologizes.

"You ruined my life."

Mom leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes at my theatrics. At least, that's what I'm envisioning. I can't really tell. My face is currently buried in one of the navy blue pillows that sits on my childhood bed where I'm moping.

"I'm twenty-fucking-five years old, and you're still ruining my life," my muffled, mono-toned voice floats between the fabric and feathers that encompass my face.

"I'm not the one who ran out," mom defensively points out. "And you're the one whose been sulking around here for a week."

True. She still should have mentioned the small detail of Dean Winchester being my father a long, long time ago. If she had, I wouldn't be here brooding around her house, feeling sorry for myself that my dad left me. And without any hunting gear to boot.

Then again, I guess it's hard to know where I would be now had I known all those years ago. Maybe Dean and I would be hunting together as a father and son team, and he'd have both his eyes because, since he wasn't alone, he never tried to kill himself. Or maybe we'd be a regular family, because Dean didn't want his kid ending up in the life and, knowing he had a son early on, he was able to quit for good. Or maybe we used to be a hunting duo, but a monster ate my face (probably a rugaru) and became yet another person Dean lost.

I like to think it's alternate reality number one, but that's just the dreamer in me.

Anyway, I'd suck up Dean's behavior and hit the road again, only I don't have anything to hunt with. I don't have enough cash to buy an entire hunter's arsenal, and I don't remember where we stashed the preexisting one hiding in the flatbed of my truck (or my truck in general for that matter).

_God, I don't even have a car._

"I know you're angry with me," mom tries a calmer tone. "And you have every right to be. I can't tell you enough how sorry I am for keeping all that from you. But you can't just mope around here forever."

I'm not planning on it. I just need some time. I'm still feeling a little crushed. It's painful enough that my idol and hunting partner walked out on me. The fact that he did it because he ended up being my father just makes the whole thing so much more devastating.

Knowing mom kept that detail to herself my entire life doesn't help any.

"Leave me alone," I finally speak through the pillow, not interested in company. Especially not hers.

"Fine," mom says with a sigh. "There's leftover pizza in the fridge when you're ready to be an adult."

As much as I want to get angry at her for this comment, I can't. She's right. I am being a little childish. I've been brooding around her house for almost a week when I should have done what any decent hunter would have done; get my shit together and play through the pain.

I lift my face from the depths of my pillow and mentally formulate a plan as I listen to mom's footsteps echo down the hall. I don't have enough cash for an arsenal, but I've got more than enough for a bus ticket to Garth's. Someone there is bound to know where Dean's storage locker is, and if they don't, I can at least find another hunter to team up with until I can scrape together some new weapons and a car.

Dean can't keep me from hunting. It's literally in my blood, and I can't stop. Not this way. I'm a freaking Winchester.

_I'm Ben fucking Braden._

\- - - - -

"The bus to Toledo will be departing in fifteen minutes."

The friendly voice echoes through the station from the overhead speakers. I sigh and glance down at the ticket in my hand.

Battle Creek, MI - Bloomington, IN - Depart 6:23 PM.

I check my phone for the time. Six o-one. Not too much longer.

I'm kind of surprised mom hasn't come barreling in to stop me from a hasty departure she knows will end with me hunting monsters. I would have bet a hundred bucks she would have tracked me down and attempted to drag me home. She still has twenty-two minutes to make an appearance.

Make that twenty-one.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and sit back on the wooden bench I occupy. At first I think I'll people watch to pass the time (while simultaneously keeping a look out for a mom on the warpath), but my mind quickly returns to how abandoned I feel.

I can't believe Dean left me. Hunting with him made it clear he was lost without family. I became his family and then, all of a sudden, I'm legitimately and literally part of his family. And that's what made him take off.

_What's wrong with him? Or is there something wrong with me?_

"Ben."

The deep, rough voice snaps me out of my near trancelike state, hurling me back to the bus station my body never left. I don't have to look to see who it is. That voice is pretty distinct to me by now. Still, I glance up.

"Ji- er, Castiel," I acknowledge the presence of my angel stepfather who stands just to my left in that old tan trench coat he's always wearing.

"Hello," he nods back with a small, awkward smile.

"How'd you find me?" I ask.

"I am a celestial being," he reminds me. "Although it was kind of obvious where you be."

"Right." Pause. "Did mom send you?"

"No," he shakes his head. "You're an adult. She can't stop you from living your life, no matter how unenthusiastic she currently is about your lifestyle choices. She is a little disappointed you didn't say goodbye."

"Well, I'm a little disappointed with her right now, too," I say, attempting to cover the mild guilt I suddenly feel for my hasty departure. "What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to talk," Castiel says as he invites himself to take the empty spot on the bench beside me. I turn my gaze dead ahead and away from him to emphasize my lack of interest in his intentions.

"You know you're the last person, or whatever, I want to talk to right now, right?" I say.

"I know I'm not at the top of the list of people you'd like to talk to," he acknowledges. "But I thought I might be able to for a moment anyway."

"The bus to Bloomington will be departing in fifteen minutes," the pleasant voice announces over the speakers.

I look back to Castiel with unenthusiastic, sincere eyes.

"You have fourteen minutes," I say before focusing my gaze away from the angel again.

"I just wanted to apologize," he gets right to the point. "I know you're still a little angry with me."

"Understatement," I mumble shortly. I'm still pissed at mom and all she did was keep my real father's identity from me my entire life. Castiel kept this _and_ my memories from me, all while pretending to be an astrophysicist named Jim.

"And I know you're probably not going to forgive me anytime soon," he goes on. "And that's understandable. I just wanted you to know how truly sorry I am for everything and that my heart was in the right place."

A somewhat uncomfortable and awkward silence falls when I don't respond and he doesn't elaborate.

"Why'd you do it?" I quietly ask after a few minutes have slowly passed. "Why did you take our memories?"

"Dean asked me to," he easily replies.

I wait for him to elaborate until I realize I'll have to prompt him to do so.

"So you just do everything Dean asks you to?" I question, giving him a skeptical look.

"More or less," Castiel nods. "For a while, there wasn't much I wouldn't do for him whether he asked me or not. That's why I tracked you and your mother down. At first, anyway. I wanted to keep you safe for him."

I don't say anything. It's not that I don't believe him. I know he's being sincere. That everything he did were motivated by good intentions. It doesn't mean I forgive him for his deceptions.

"You know, your mother feels bad for keeping you in the dark about your father," he says after a minute of silence passes.

"Yeah," I nod. "She's apologized a few times."

"You know you're going to have to talk to her at some point," Castiel says, which causes me to roll my eyes.

"Yes, I know," I groan. "Can't I just be pissed off for a while? I mean, I did get a major bombshell dropped on me. You've been lying to me, my own mother's been lying to me and my hunting partner who turned out to be my dad walked out on me." I pause to sigh before adding with a mumble, "He didn't even leave me any weapons."

"Really?" Castiel questions. "Dean didn't leave you with any weapons? At all?"

"Well, I do have my pistol," I say with a small shrug. "And..."

I trail off when I realize I've got one of the best hunting weapons yet tucked safely away in my backpack. The demon blade.

"Where are you headed?" Castiel questions casually.

"Garth's," I absently respond, my mind suddenly on the blade.

Did Dean mean to leave it with me? Is this his way of saying I should find him? Or did he completely forget I even had it?

"Ah, Garth," Castiel says with a small, fond smile. "I haven't seen him in years. Is he still hunting?"

"No," I reply. "He runs a tavern and inn for hunters outside Bloomington. I was going to see if he can help me restock my arsenal."

"Ah," the angel nods, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "I could take you there if you'd like."

"No," I decline, shaking my head. "I'm fine. I've already got my ticket."

"Okay," he accepts my response. "If you change your mind in the next-" He pauses to check his watch. "-three minutes, let me know." Pause. "I could take you to your truck."

This grabs my interest.

"You... know where my truck is?" I question with a mix of hope and skepticism in my voice.

"Not specifically," he shakes his head. "But if you point me in the right direction, I shouldn't have a problem locating it."

I hesitate. On one hand, I really don't want anything from the angel. I am still pissed. On the other, getting my truck back would probably make me feel a little better about my life. And it would make the next few weeks easier.

"I know you're still mad," Castiel adds. "But I'd really like to try to make it up to you. I know this won't fix everything, but I'd like to think it would be a start."

Torn. I'm so torn. And I only have one minute to make up my mind.

"Ummm... ahhhhlll right," I begrudgingly agree.

I'm not thrilled about riding through Indiana with my celestial step-father. But I guess it is a start.


	24. Demon Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben hunts a demon to prove himself to Dean, but quickly realizes he may have bitten off more than he can chew.

"So Castiel drove me down to Dean's storage unit and now I'm here."

"I thought angels could fly."

I glance up from my task of loading a sawed off shotgun. Netta—my 5'5" dark haired, olive skinned, brown eyed huntress friend—sits on a large wooden crate, slowly filling a super soaker with holy water.

"Or teleport or whatever," she says, carefully loading the yellow, orange and green water toy.

"His grace is a little broken I guess," I reply with a short shrug.

"So what you're telling us," Netta begins, pausing in her own work to face me. "Is you went hunting with your idol, who turned out to be your dad, which makes you a Winchester, and your step-dad is actually an angel?"

"That's the extremely abridged version, yes," I nod.

"Dude," she says with awe. "You're so lucky."

"What story were you listening to?" I question with a slight wrinkle in my brow.

"How are you _not_ lucky?" Netta returns. "Luke, tell Ben how lucky he is."

I glance left to Luke—my 5'11" friend with shaggy red hair—who cradles a sawed off shot gun, his gaze fixed on the door of the darkened, abandoned factory where we're stationed.

"You're lucky," he absently humors our friend, his eyes never leaving the door.

"Don't say it so enthusiastically," Netta snorts sarcastically with an eye roll. "Wait..." she adds, her dark eyes narrowing. "Did you already know about all this?"

"Well, yeah," Luke says, his focus still locked on the door. "I mean, I didn't know about it until we met up with him. But yeah, I knew."

"Freaking psychics," Netta mutters, returning to her project.

Luke grins.

I don't know why he's so focused on it. He's the one person in this room who doesn't need to keep watch. He can sense things like demons from a mile away.

"Just psyching myself up for the fight," Luke replies to my silent ponderings without turning his head.

I smile. Most people get creeped out by his ability to read minds. I'm used to it by now. Luke was the first hunter I met when I was just starting out. He's the one who told me about the legendary Dean Winchester. According to him, Dean and Sam were around when his psychic stuff started kicking in.

I wonder how many hunters are out there because of Dean?

"We're not the only ones," Luke vaguely informs me.

"Agh, would you knock it off?" Netta groans. "I hate when you do that. It's annoying."

Luke smiles again, taking mild pleasure in irritating our friend by replying to questions nobody asked out loud.

"Anyway, I wouldn't worry too much about it," Netta returns to the original conversation, setting the filled super soaker on the table beside her before picking up an empty one. "Dean was probably just a little freaked out about suddenly being a dad. He'll come around after it sinks in."

"Says the girl who doesn't actually know Dean," I grumble. "I'm not super confident he's coming back. I don't think he even wants me hunting anymore."

"He left you that awesome demon blade didn't he?" Netta questions as she works on filling a second super soaker. "You know, the blade that gave you the idea to track down a demon?"

"Yeah," I nod as I bring the weapon out from it's place within my jacket pocket. I look at it for a moment with a blend of fondness and heartbreak. "I'm not sure he remembered I had it."

He probably didn't remember. As much as I'd like to believe he left it with me as a way of saying "I'm coming back, just keep hunting until I'm ready", I know that's a little unrealistic. His departure was incredibly hasty and he left me stranded at my mom's. Thinking back, that's a pretty clear "I don't want you hunting anymore".

I thought he said I was a good hunter. I thought we were friends. Why does me being his blood change everything? What did I do to make him change his mind and take off?

"It's not your fault, Ben," Luke tells me with, tearing his eyes away from the door to give me a look of sincerity. "Dean has some issues. He's been hunting way too long to not. Plus, he's lost almost everyone he's ever known. All of a sudden he's got you. The last surviving Winchester."

"You think I should quit?" I ask him.

"God no," he shakes his head. "You're a good hunter. And you actually like it. Dean's just afraid of loosing one more person."

"Which is why he took off, right?" I question sarcastically.

"I'm a psychic, not a psychiatrist," Luke says, retuning his gaze to the closed doors. "I don't know why it makes sense to him."

"Like Ben would be in less danger if he wasn't there," Netta chimes in.

"Possibly," Luke shrugs.

"Can we stop talking about Dean now?" I request. "I didn't arrange this whole thing so I could keep thinking about it, you know."

From the corner of his eye, Luke flashes me a knowing glance. He's more than aware of why I organized a demon hunt, and it's not to get my mind off Dean. Not exactly. Luke knows what I'm really trying to accomplish.

I'm trying to impress him. I won't admit it out loud, but that's exactly what I'm trying to do. Impress him and show him I'm in this life, I'm not leaving, and I'm not dying any time soon.

"You've never actually hunted demons before, have you?" Netta somewhat changes the subject, capping off her water gun as she speaks.

"No," I admit. "But I've met their king."

Netta looks up at me with her jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Seriously?" she asks. "What happened?"

"He took me to a strip club."

"That's... What?"

"Incoming," Luke announces suddenly, straightening his posture from casual to defensive.

Netta swings herself from the crate and takes up her super soakers. I stand to the left of Luke, readying my sawed off as Netta takes a position on his right.

"He's less than a half mile out," he informs us, staring dead ahead at the same door he's been staring at all night. "He's moving fast."

"You're sure he's heading this way?" Netta questions skeptically. "What's he need with an abandoned factory?"

"He sells guns," Luke replies as-a-matter-of-factly. "He does his business here."

"What is he, a gangster?" Netta questions as her nose wrinkles. "That's kind of lame for a hell bitch."

"You told me to find you a demon, I found you a demon," Luke says. "They're not that easy to find these days. They've been trying to blend in so hunters like us don't go looking for them."

"Whatever," Netta shrugs, aiming her water guns at the door. "Let's just get this over with. There's a vamp nest in Buffalo that needs cleaning out. Ben, you wanna hack heads with us?"

"Not really," I shake my head. "I'm still a little bummed about April."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

I shake it off. I've really gotta focus on this. I'll be damned if I mess up on my "screw you, I'm still hunting and I'm fucking great at it" mission.

I should be nervous. My heart should be racing and my palms should be sweaty. Yet, somehow, I'm eerily calm.

_Don't get cocky, Ben. We have the element of surprise on our side, but he's a demon. There are a lot of ways this whole thing could blow up in our face._

"Shit."

I glance over to Luke who looks a little ill. He readies his shotgun and points it straight at the door while swiftly marching forward.

"He knows we're here," he gravely informs us.

This is part where my heart would be racing. That is, if it hadn't completely stopped. My stomach drops and my palms instinctively begin to sweat.

"What!?" I try to yell, but it comes out in a squeaky whisper so low I barely even hear it.

I've hardly even grasped the fact the demon has one up on us (and not the other way around) when the doors violently blow open. Despite our three second warning, it still takes me off guard. From the corner of my eye I see Netta jump as I scramble to get a good grip on my gun.

A thirty-something male in blue jeans and a long black coat with black hair and eyes that match storms inside with a menacing smirk on his lips. Luke fires off a shot before the demon shoots an invisible force that sends the psychic hunter sailing backwards. Netta and I watch in horror as our friend flies past us, dropping his gun before he falls into the crate Netta had been sitting on. We turn our attention to the demon before we can get too distracted, but it's too late. The demon's got his hands out, as if he's trying to prevent an invisible wall from crushing him, and I'm suddenly flying a good five feet in the air in a direction opposite from where Netta is sailing.

Well this went south fast. All those stories about Dean and Sam slaying demons like it was nothing, I didn't think it would be _that_ hard. I guess I figured that was just their specialty. Like how Netta's particularly spectacular at taking out vampires, and how Luke has made a name for himself in his shifter slaying talents.

Boy is my face red.

I finally land flat on my back with a hard thud and I can feel the wind being sucked out of me. It's been a while since anything's knocked me down this hard. The only difference between those monsters and this one is that this guy didn't even touch me.

Note to self: demons > everything else.

_So apparently dad's a bigger badass than I originally gave him credit for._

_Dude, don't call him dad. He hasn't earned that title._

_Right. Yeah, I know. I don't know why it came out that way. I must have landed harder than I thought._

_Dissect it later. You might wanna catch your breath and focus on the demon in the room before he does something demony._

_Right, yeah. Got it. That would be embarrassing if I got killed on my "prove my skills to dad" mission, huh?_

_You did it again._

_Damnit..._

A hard, loud laugh snaps me out of my dazed mental babbling. I try—to no avail—not to groan as I feel for my shotgun. I can barely breathe and it feels like my head is about to split open, but I have two options right now; fight or die. And dying isn't really an option.

"You kids thought you could get the jump on me?" the demon cackles with amusement, standing in the center of the vast, and mostly empty building. "Is it me or are hunters getting dumber?"

I gradually begin to lift my aching body from the floor, glancing around for my compadres as I do. Luke sits on the floor with his back propped up against the wooden crate, moaning in pain. Netta lays on the concrete floor just inside the demon trap we had painted on the floor, blindly feeling for her super soakers as she tries to blink the pain away.

"Which one of you do I kill first?" the demon ponders gleefully, looking between the three of us before his gaze settles on Netta. "Well, I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I didn't let the ladies go first, would I?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," I speak boldly as I begin rising to my feet. My head still feels like it's exploding and my body's a bit shaky from getting the wind knocked out of me, but I manage to scoop up my gun before I stand straight. A little wobbly, but straight none the less.

"Oh?" the demon questions, both amused and annoyed as he vaguely glances in my direction. "But I think I would."

"You kill us," I begin anyway, shakily aiming my gun as I speak. "You're gonna have a half dozen hunters on your ass before you can blink."

The demon half scoffs, half laughs.

"I'm willing to risk a few hunters looking for me," the demon says with confidence. "No one's exorcising me tonight."

From the corner of my eye I can see Luke rise to his feet. He slowly collects his shotgun and takes a steady aim.

But I'm not the only one who sees this.

The demon puts his hands up again and Luke and I are sailing backwards once more, flying farther from Netta who continues to frantically feel for her water guns.

"Wait your turn," the demon tells us.

My body slams onto the cold, hard floor. This time I land on my right shoulder. I hear a sickening crunch as a sharp pain explodes beneath the skin and I know my shoulder is no longer in the right place.

I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth to keep myself from yelling out in pain. At least I'm not thinking about my splitting headache anymore. But that blow has made my right arm—my good arm—almost utterly useless.

_Shit._

I glance over to Luke who holds his head in his hands as he slowly attempts to sit up. Still alive. That's good.

Holding onto my bad shoulder with my left hand, I sit myself up and search for Netta. She sits inside the demon trap, clutching an orange and green super soaker. She tries to aim it at the demon, but she's too slow. The demon flicks it out of her hands with ease.

_Okay. Netta doesn't have any weapons. But he can't hurt her without trapping himself. She's in the middle of the..._

The demon stoops down, placing his right palm flat against the floor just before the white circle. The ground begins to shake and seconds later a large crack splits the demon trap in half. Netta attempts to back herself away from the situation but is pinned down by that invisible force this guy really likes to use.

_Shit._

Luke takes to his feet. I can tell by the way he staggers he's a little disoriented. Possibly concussed. But it's not going to keep him from fighting. Even though his chances of staying on his feet are slim, he's not giving up.

Sure enough, as soon as he's scooped up his gun once more, the demon knocks him back, this time pinning him to the wall.

_Shit._

_Keep talking, Ben. Keep this asshole distracted._

"Then again, there might be only one hunter who will come back for you," I say, finding my feet while I hold my shoulder.

The demon rolls his eyes at me.

"They won't find me," he tells me with confidence. "Not if I get a new meat suit and skip town."

"This one will," I tell him as I slowly begin shuffling towards him. "And when he does, he's not going to exorcise you."

The demon cocks a brow. Intrigue takes over the annoyance he had felt. He's curious, but more importantly, he's focused on me. Netta and Luke are safe for another minute.

"What's he gonna do?" the demon inquires with amusement. "Take me out to dinner?"

"No," I shake my head. I continue making slow, cautious steps towards him. When I reach the spot where my gun lies, I shuffle past it.

"He'll kill you."

For a split second, the demon finds this concerning. He quickly brushes this off as an empty threat made by a young hunter who's advancing on a demon at a snail's pace without a gun, salt or holy water.

"Hunters really are getting dumber," he says with a smile and a loud, short laugh. "He can't kill me. No one can. I'm a fucking demon."

"Yeah, well this guy can," I firmly assure him.

"Yeah?" the demon laughs as he turns his back to me, returning his focus on Netta. "Unless he's one of those winged assholes, I think I'm safe."

"He's no angel," I say as I near his hunched figure. From the pocket on the inside of my jacket I slowly and painfully withdraw the demon blade with my right hand. I exchange hands, gripping it tightly in my left.

"But you've probably heard of him. His name is Dean Winchester."

The demon freezes at this name. I'm standing right behind him when he gradually begins to twist around. When he glances up, his face has fallen into a look of sheer terror.

"Why would Dean Winchester come looking for me?" he demands in a tone barely above a whisper. He squints his eyes to study my face, clearly unaware of what I hold in my hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm his son."

His eyes widen as an " _oh shit_ " look sweeps across his face.

I bring the knife back. This catches the demon's eye, but by the time he can figure out what it is, it's too late. The blade swings and, despite the fact I'm not using my good hand, I manage to easily bury the weapon in his throat.

An electric red light illuminates his skeleton, flickering for a moment before burning out. The body crumples to the floor as a heavy sigh of relief leaves my lips. What I just did took courage, but I was silently freaking out about it the whole time.

And now I have nothing but pure adrenaline pumping through me.

"Holy shit, dude," Netta exhales as I extend my left hand towards her. "I thought I was a goner."

She accepts my offer and I help her to her feet. Luke, whose returned to his feet, bends down to collect his shotgun.

"Next time you wanna go demon hunting," he begins, gently rubbing the back of his head as he moves towards us. "Leave me out of it."

"Hey," I say with small, almost giddy smile. "I got you into this, but I got you out too."

"Yeah," Luke agrees. "I think I have a concussion."

"Sorry," I apologize. "If it's any consolation, my shoulder's definitely dislocated."

"That was kind of badass, though," Netta says. "Dropping your dad's name. Bringing fear to a fear-bringer."

"I have to agree with that," Luke nods. "That was pretty badass."

"Thanks," I beam. "I was just kind of improvising."

I stoop down to remove my weapon from the demon's neck, carefully wiping the bloody blade on my jeans.

"That kind of has a nice ring to it," Netta goes on. "'Dean Winchester's son'."

"Yeah," I nod, temporarily forgetting that I'm mad at the man who ditched me. "It kind of does."

"What the hell is going on in here?"

The rough voice comes from the open doors behind me. Netta's eyes grow wide. Luke's brows raise as his gaze falls to the source of the voice.

Slowly I turn to face him. The hunter with an eyepatch and a perpetual five o'clock shadow. The guy I rode around the country and fought monsters with. The person who helped make my life possible.

And he looks pissed.

"Hey, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke is Lucas Barr from "Dead In The Water" (season 1, episode 3). Grown up, of course. They never stated in the show whether or not his psychic abilities were exclusive to that particular ghost/case or if he was permanently "gifted", so I made him a full-fledged psychic. Because fanfiction.


	25. Choice Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben tells Dean off.

I should be beaming with pride. High fives should be liberally distributed and Luke and Netta should be arguing over who's buying the first round.

And all we're doing is staring at Dean.

"Oh my god," Netta whispers in awe. "It's Dean Winchester. _It's Dean Winchester_."

"Yeah," I say with far less enthusiasm. "It is."

"Dude," Netta says, barely taking her eyes off of Dean. "Your dad's hot."

"No," I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "Just... no."

"What's going on?" Dean questions with a frown as he invites himself into the building. His eye sweeps over the three of us before it falls to the motionless body laying on the floor behind us.

"Just doin' our job," I reply. "What are you doing here?"

"I tracked a demon here," he says, his eye still on the body.

"That's him," Netta says in a sweet tone. "We killed him. Well, Ben killed him. You should have seen him, he was awesome. The demon had Luke and I pinned and Ben came at him..."

Dean frowns at Netta who trails off.

"... and you don't want to hear about it," she finishes with disappointment.

"You hunted a demon?" Dean angrily half asks, half states. "You've never hunted demons before. You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"Occupational hazard," I calmly reply with a shrug. "I had to learn how to deal with them sooner or later. Besides, I had two partners and two hands to work with."

I motion to Dean's right arm, which is still wrapped in a hard, white cast.

There are about a half dozen ways he could react to this. Something like "I don't need two hands to kill a demon", or "I have more experience than the three of you combined". Instead he gives me an icy, unimpressed stare.

"I'm Netta, by the way," Netta practically bursts, still a little giddy to be in Dean's presence. "I have to say it's an honor to meet you."

Dean gives her a curious glance but doesn't offer a handshake or a smile. He doesn't even say a single word.

"Ben's a good hunter," she sticks up for me. "Apparently it's hereditary."

Dean frowns, wordlessly telling her he's uninterested in hearing these things. I'd say "not right now", but Dean never wants to hear these things. He doesn't like being a legend and an idol, and he doesn't like me hunting, especially now that we know we're blood.

Dean's eye rolls from Netta to Luke. He studies the redheaded hunter with a look of puzzled familiarity. He knows he's crossed paths with Luke before, but he can't quite remember when, where or why.

"Dean," Luke speaks with a polite nod.

Dean squints his eye, trying to force the memory to break through his whiskey soaked mind.

"It'll come to you," Luke says with a small smile.

Dean stares a little harder and, suddenly, his face falls from concentration to surprise.

"Yes," Luke nods. "The kid from Lake Manitoc. And yes, I still have the psychic 'mojo'. It's a little bit more than visions now, as you can tell."

Dean doesn't say anything. He blinks at Luke in disbelief for a moment. And he looks a little ill.

"We should go," Luke says after a moment of uncomfortable silence has passed. "Come on, Netta. Let's go wait in the car."

"Put in a good word for me," Netta whispers to me with a little wink.

"Ew," I wrinkle my nose again before she walks off with Luke.

"My head is going to explode," Dean groans once we're alone, rubbing his temples. "How many hunters are out there because of me?"

"I don't know," I say with a shrug. "At least two."

Dean's eye snaps up at me, as if he had forgotten he was angry with me.

"About that," he begins. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I was doing my job, _Dean_ ," I reply, emphasizing his name to let him know that's who he is to me. Not dad. Dean.

"You could have gotten hurt," he says with a concerned but cross tone.

"Well, I didn't," I snap.

"What's wrong with your arm?"

"It's... dislocated," I slowly admit. "But it's fine. I'm fine."

"I can't believe your still hunting," he huffs, shaking his head.

"Why?" I question, furrowing my brows in animosity. "You thought ditching me at my mom's house was gonna make me stop?"

"I figured it was a pretty clear message, yeah," he replies sternly.

"You don't get to decide what I do with my life, _Dean_ ," I spit. "Suddenly being my biological father doesn't mean you get to decide what I can and cannot do."

"You wanna bet?" Dean returns angrily.

"Yeah, I do. In fact," I say, pulling my cell phone from my jean's pocket. I awkwardly toss it to Dean with my left hand. "Call my mom. Right now. Call my mom and tell her you're going to boss her son around because you're a bitter, selfish old man."

"Really not that old," he replies. "And since when is trying to protect you selfish?"

"Who are you protecting me for?!" I fume. "My mom? The woman who doesn't care what I do as long as I'm doing what I want to do? Or the guy who's never going to see me again?"

"You think I don't want to see you? You think it was easy for me to just walk away? That was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, Ben."

"No, that was one of the lamest things you've ever done," I accuse. "You walking away can't make me quit. Hating that I'm in this life can't make me quit. This is what I do, goddamn it. This is my life, and this is my job."

"Why?" Dean asks, his tone still full of anger, but I can tell it's loosing steam. Like he's getting remorseful, sorrowful, but he's trying to cover it up with rage like he's done since forever. "Why do you have to do this? Why does this have to be your job?"

For a second, I'm not actually sure who he's asking. The question is directed at me, yes. But I can tell it's a question he's asked himself dozens of times over. _"Why me? Why does this have to be my job?"_ And it baffles him that some one would choose a life he had no choice but be a part of.

"Because I know about this crap," I tell him, which reminds me of the first conversation I ever had with him as an adult. The first time he tried to get me to quit. "I don't just know about ghosts and monsters and demons, I know how to kill 'em. What kind of person would I be if I just dropped out and let defenseless, innocent people fend for themselves?"

"A smart person," Dean replies. "Trust me, Ben. You don't want to be a hunter."

"Yes, Dean, I do," I nod, the anger in my tone lowering slightly. "We're dirty and poor and lonely and generally homeless, but us hunters, we're some of the most productive and valuable members of society. We save people. We save humanity. Hell yes I want this job. I'm sorry you didn't get to choose, but I'm more sorry you still can't see just how important people like us are."

"You don't get it..." he begins, but I won't let him finish. I'm done with this conversation. I'm done trying to convince him I can hold my own. If killing a demon my first go at demon hunting won't show him I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, nothing will. He's just going to keep trying to remove me from this life, and I'm done with it. It ends here. Even if that means I'm ending any and all contact with him, the dad I always wanted and finally had. I'm putting a stop to all of it.

"No," I cut him off. " **You** don't get it. So let me simplify it for you. I'm in this life, regardless of what you want for me."

I begin to brush past him, grabbing my cellphone from his grasp as I do.

"Just because you've been doing this longer doesn't mean you understand what this life really is, _Dean._ "

"Haven't you learned anything from me?" he shouts as I walk away.

"Yeah, I have," I admit, pausing to face him as I deliver my response. "I've learned a lot from you. I've learned a few tricks to hunting and I've learned a few things about monsters I never knew existed. I learned to keep my head in the game. I learned that I'll probably age faster than most people, that it'll more than likely turn me into an unpleasant asshole if it doesn't kill me first. I've learned that this life wasn't what I used to think it was, but it's still the life I want. But mostly, Dean, I've learned that you're a dick."

And that's how I leave him. A little angry, a little stupefied, but mostly hurt. And I'm still too pissed to care.


	26. Manticore, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months later...  
> Ben & Luke run into Dean on a job

_Munising, Michigan_

It's been two months since I last saw Dean.

Come to think of it, it's been two months since _anyone_ has seen Dean.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Garth told me when I last passed through the tavern. "He does that a lot. Didn't see him for three whole years once. Came back with that eye patch and those gnarly lookin' scars. Never said how he got 'em so folks started makin' assumptions. You ever get the skinny on that?"

"No," I lied. "Maybe it really was the Jersey Devil."

That was almost a week ago. And I am a little worried. I know Dean's a survivor. He doesn't even loose the fights he goes into with every intention of loosing. But it would just figure he went and got himself killed after how I left things between us.

"I mean, I'm still mad at him. But what if that was the last thing I ever said to him?"

"He's not dead, so quit worrying about it and shut up," Luke hisses. "I'm trying to figure out what we're hunting."

I sigh from the motel bed where I've been laying, staring up at a weird looking stain on the ceiling as I blather on about the "what ifs" that are starting to weigh on me. I sit up to look at Luke who sits at the small wooden table near the door, flipping through a large book of mythology.

"I'm telling you it's a windigo," I say as I reach for an unopened bottle of ale that sits on the nightstand between the full sized beds.

"And I'm telling you it's not," Luke argues with annoyance.

"What else could it be?" I challenge, popping off the cap. "People are walking into the woods, but they're not walking out. We're in the right part of the country, plus there are all those scratch marks on the trees. You did say it looked like a _monster_ monster in your vision."

"Yes," he admits. "But I didn't say it looked like a windigo."

"I'm still pretty sure it's a windigo," I tell him with confidence before taking a sip from the brown bottle I hold. "I've got a flare gun in my truck."

"How helpful," Luke mutters sarcastically.

He continues to flip through old, yellowing pages, glancing between the book and the sketch he drew of the creature in his vision. Suddenly he pauses, staring down at the page he's landed on. Whatever he's found, it's caused his eyes to widen and a deep breath to escape as he sits back in his chair.

"Shit," he mumbles. "I know what we're hunting."

"What is it?" I ask before taking another swig of my beer.

"Manticore."

Most of the beer in my mouth sprays out, ending up on the tacky leaf patterned bedspread. The beer I don't spit out I end up choking on.

"What!?" I cough, pounding my chest in an attempt to expel alcohol from my lungs. "Are you kidding me?! A manticore!?"

"Yep," Luke confirms with a serious lack of enthusiasm.

"Jesus," I say in a low tone, wiping the corners of my mouth with the sleeve of my plaid red and yellow shirt.

If there's a creature worse than a demon, it's a manticore. A creature with the head of a man, the body of a lion and a tail that resembles a scorpion's, or so the legends would have you believe. They have poisonous darts that shoot out of their tail and three rows of sharp, pointed teeth. They're lightning fast, Hulk strong and mercilessly vicious.

The worst part is that they eat people. Whole. Clothes and all. Their name literally means "man-eater".

"I thought those things were extinct," I say, hoping the fact I don't want this creature to be a manticore will somehow turn it into a lesser monster. "And not generally found in the US of A. What's it doing here?"

"Besides eating people, I have no idea," Luke shrugs with a sigh. "Listen, if you want to sit this one out, I don't think Netta's too far away."

"No, no," I shake my head. "I'm in."

"Really," he says. "It would be okay. I can call Garth, have him send up another hunter or two..."

"I said I'm in," I repeat firmly, offended he seems to think I'm too scared to fight.

I mean, I am pretty freaked out. I won't deny that. There's no use lying to a psychic. But I'm also not going to let that stop me from taking this thing down.

It's time I start making a legend out of myself.

"I knew you wouldn't back down," Luke says, but in less of a "good for you" sort of way, and more of a "that's disappointing" kind of way.

"Is there a reason I _shouldn't_ go?" I question suspiciously.

"I guess not," he replies. "I mean, we'll both make it out alive."

"Then there's no reason for me not to go," I say. "So how do we kill it?"

\- - - - -

_Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore [just outside Munising]_

We wait until the sun's gone down and all the tourists have vacated the area for the day. Once the last car—save for my beat-up pickup truck—has pulled away from the trail head's parking lot, Luke and I start loading up our hunting gear.

"You're sure about this?" I ask as I load my silver handgun with regular run-of-the-mill bullets. "Because I'm not going to lie, this sounds horrible."

"Lore states the manticore's skin is too thick to be penetrated," Luke explains for the second time this evening. "The only vulnerable place is..."

"The mouth," I finish with a sigh. "Yeah, I know. I was hoping I had heard you wrong or that we didn't believe the lore."

"When do we ever _not_ believe the lore?" he points out.

I sigh again. I mean, I'm not too worried. Luke assured me we're walking out of this one alive, so there's not a lot to really worry about. Still, trying to get this thing to swallow a bullet sounds hard and mildly terrifying.

"Which one of us kills it?" I ask, trying to soothe the nerves. "Is it me?"

"I'm not telling," Luke says. "That's cheating."

"Dude, hunting with you in general is basically cheating," I point out. "You already told me we live. Just give me a hint. Or at least tell me what weapons to bring."

"No," Luke refuses.

I knew he wouldn't tell me. He never tells me the details of his visions, not unless he thinks I absolutely need to know something. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because knowing what happens will make me cocky and that will somehow change the outcome. Or maybe he just doesn't feel the need to tell me all about something I'm about to live through.

"Just stay away from the cliffs."

So there is something he's not telling me. I began to suspect as much when he seemed a little bummed I wouldn't tap out of this one. But if we both make it out, it can't be that bad, right? Maybe an injury or two but living is the important thing here. Living and killing that damn manticore.

Despite the fact Luke knows who and what will inevitably kill this creature, we both load up with multiple weapons; hand guns, rifles, bows. Anything we can launch towards this thing's mouth without having to get too close, although I do strap a hunting knife to my hip for the hell of it, and Luke packs a handful of throwing knives just in case.

Heavily armed and as ready as we'll ever be, I lock up my truck and we head for the trail.

"Hypothetically speaking," Luke begins as we find the dirt path that cuts through a dense forest. "If you were to see Dean again, what would you say to him?"

"I don't know," I admit, awkwardly carrying my rifle and bow under my left arm while my right hand fidgets with a flashlight. "I'd be glad he wasn't dead. I guess I'd apologize for calling him a dick, maybe try to hash things out."

"Okay," he nods. "Just hold onto that idea."

"Oh... kay..."

I'm not even going to bother asking. I'm sure it's one of those things that'll make sense when the time comes. Plus, as mentioned, Luke infrequently elaborates on his visions.

But if he's asking, I'm willing to bet I'll be running into Dean in the near future.

We stroll along the trail for a while, keeping a sharp eye out as we converse. The way we see it, the manticore will probably come looking for us. Noise will alert it that we're nearby and will probably bring it out sooner than later.

We've been walking for a while when I hear a twig snap. It comes from the trail behind us, not too far away from the sounds of it. I gulp but maintain a casual composure.

"I think we're being followed," I whisper.

"I think you're right," Luke quietly agrees.

I attempt to stealthily adjust my rifle so I can reach the trigger with my left hand while keeping the bow tucked under my arm. I count to three in my head before I quickly spin around, pointing both flashlight and gun at...

"Dean?"

The Winchester squints as he turns his face away from the bright light.

"Put that thing down," his gruff voice instructs.

I oblige, lowering the light to the ground. Dean blinks a few times, attempting to regain his night vision.

I turn my gaze away from him with an annoyed expression on my face, wordlessly telling him I'm still mad. Part of me is relieved to see him alive. But knowing he's okay has suddenly made me less keen on apologizing, despite Luke's suggestion of "holding on to" my original should-I-run-into-Dean plan.

If anyone here needs to say "I'm sorry", it's him.

"Manticore?" Luke asks Dean, though it's really more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Big game for a couple of rookies, don't you think?"

"We're not going anywhere," I snap before he can insist we stay back, narrowing my eyes at him as I speak. "And we're not 'rookies'. We've got this one covered."

"Yeah, well, I'm not going anywhere either," Dean states firmly. "I don't need backup."

"No one's going anywhere," Luke steps in. "We're all after the same thing, so we might as well work together. Alright?"

"Fine," I mumble.

"Yeah, sure," Dean replies unenthusiastically.

"Good," Luke says. "Let's keep walking."

Luke takes the lead, leaving Dean and I to walk side by side behind him.

I wonder if this is why Luke suggested I try to patch things up with Dean. Because he knew we'd be hunting with him. It would be a lot less awkward if we were on good terms.

"You're carrying too many weapons," Dean criticizes, his eye taking in our surroundings.

"At least I have weapons," I huff. "Or is this just another suicide mission for you?"

"What are you talking about?" Dean's brows furrow.

"I'm getting the feeling this hunt is like that griffin you took on in New Jersey," I tell him. "I heard you praying to Castiel. I know why you took that griffin on by yourself."

Dean stops short. I pause to watch him pull his jacket open. He frowns at me as he pulls a plastic bottle from his inner jacket pocket.

"I have weapons, smartass," he tells me.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Gasoline," he replies, slipping it back into his pocket.

"Gasoline?" I echo in the form of a question. "How is that a weapon? It's mouth is it's only weak spot."

"What do you think'll happen if it ingests gasoline?" Dean answers my question with another question. He pauses to pull out a flare gun. "And it catches fire?"

Okay, fair enough. Maybe Luke and I took this creature's vulnerability too literally. I'm sure forcing it to eat led would work, but poisoning it or setting it on fire from the inside would probably work just as well. Except...

"How are you going to get it to drink gasoline?" I ponder out loud. "Are you just going to walk up to it and pour it in?"

"If I have to," he replies as he begins walking once again.

"So this _is_ a suicide mission for you," I accuse, jogging to catch up with him. "Is it seriously easier for you to just give up than it is for you to say you're sorry and let me live my own life?"

"It's not a suicide mission," Dean denies.

"Bull... Shit!"

I trip on an unseen root and tumble to the ground. My weapons scatter and my flashlight rolls down the trail a short ways.

"I told you you were carrying too many weapons," Dean says.

I roll my eyes as I pick myself up, brushing dirt from my jeans before I gather my fallen weapons. Once I've collected my bow and gun, I chase down my flashlight. As I lift it from the ground, the light illuminates a face in the forest. My initial reaction is to jump back, but my nerves calm a bit when I get a better look; blue eyes, blonde hair, blonde beard. From the looks of it, it's just a man. A really tall man, but human none the less.

"Holy shit," I breath. "You scared me."

I pause, suddenly aware of the weapons in my possession. This guy's probably DNR, and I'm walking around a national park with hunting gear.

"This... isn't what it looks like," I speak, not entirely sure how I'm going to talk my way out of a hefty fine.

The man doesn't say anything. Instead he gives me a wide, toothy grin. There's something seriously wrong with his teeth. They're too sharp, and it looks like there's more than one set...

Oh.

Well, fuck.


	27. Manticore, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three hunters vs. one manticore isn't a fair fight... for the the hunters.  
> Ben learns why Luke told him to stay away from the cliffs.

_Don't panic, Ben. You're just staring a manticore in the face. No big deal._

"Lovely night we're having," I nervously babble to the creature who stands maybe five feet in front of me. "Is the moon full? I can't quite tell. It looks full. Should probably be on the look out for werewolves."

My nervous ramblings aren't for nothing. I'm trying to distract him. Keep him focused on my face so he doesn't see me drop my bow and aim my rifle.

The manticore begins to make slow, heavy steps towards me. With each step he takes, I take one step back. While I'm focused mostly on his face, I can see now what the rest of him looks like. He's tall, seven feet at least, with tough, gray hued skin coated in blonde hair. His legs resemble the hind legs of a large cat, and his hands are disproportionately large. At the end of each long, thick yet bony looking finger is an extensive, sharp claw. A long, thick curved tail with a pointed bulge at the very end sways behind him.

"You seem like the kind of guy who would eat a werewolf before you ran from one," I note as I continue to simultaneously back away while attempting to blindly aim my rifle at his mouth.

Where the hell did Luke and Dean go? Didn't Luke know this was going to happen?

"I hear werewolves are kind of gamey."

The beast hisses down at me.

So glad I peed before we left.

"Now, when you eat people, do you cook them first or are you more of a sushi kind of guy?"

_Jesus, Ben, shut up and fire your damn gun._

A shot rings out. I blink. Was that me? No, it came from somewhere to my left.

I watch as a bullet hits the manticore, but it doesn't penetrate the skin. It just smacks him in the side of the face and falls to the ground like it's made of rubber.

The manticore opens his mouth to let loose a pissed off screech that sounds more like a trumpet than anything else. Not Louis Armstrong trumpet. More fifth grade band brass section.

That was a little horrifying and weird.

I glance to my left, spotting Dean with his gun up and aimed at the manticore's face. Luke walks beside him with his rifle steadily aimed. The younger hunter fires his weapon but the same thing happens. The bullet smacks the manticore in the face, the creature gets pissed and lets out another horrible yell. I take a shot while he's screeching at Luke and Dean but, once again, the same damn thing happens.

Worst possible night for all three of us to be off our shooting game.

My mind attempts to signal my legs to run, but I sever its screams before my feet can start making tracks. I can't wuss out now. Can't ditch Luke and Dean.

_Just a bad day at the office, Ben. A really bad, horrible, shitty day at the office._

"What's the plan, Luke?" I call as the manticore tries to decide who he's going to try to devour first.

"What?!" Luke cries in return. "Why do _I_ have to come up with the plan?!"

"I figured a little direction from the guy who knows what's going to happen might help," I say.

"Just keep aiming at his mouth," Dean advises.

"And stay away from the cliffs," Luke throws in.

"That's helpful," I mutter sarcastically.

The manticore swings his massive claws at Luke, who quickly jumps back before taking a poorly aimed shot. The creature hisses down at Dean and attempts to take a bite out of him. Dean ducks, firing off another bullet. It swings its tail towards me and I jump over it. It swings back around but this time I don't jump quite high enough and fall flat on my back. The manticore notices this and spins around to hiss down at me. He takes a swipe with his massive hands as his face inches closer towards mine, dragging his claws across my chest.

"Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!" Dean angrily shouts, charging the creature.

The manticore looks up in time to watch Dean's fist make contact with his face. The beast is stunned by this unexpected assault, but it's Dean's hand that takes the real beating.

"Shit," I hear him mutter, briefly clutching his right fist with his left.

He doesn't hold his hand for long. Noticing the manticore's temporary state of confusion, Dean retrieves the bottle of gasoline from his inner jacket pocket. He swiftly removes the cap and moves to empty it in the monster's face, but he's too late. The manticore has regained composure and lashes out with one of his massive hands. Its claws rip into Dean's arm before they knock the bottle out of his grasp. It sails through the forest where it slams into a tree and falls with a thud to the ground. Even in the dark I can tell the gasoline is gone.

"Gah, fuck!" Dean gasps through gritted teeth.

The manticore yells his brassy yell at us as I attempt to scramble to my feet.

"Hey, you ugly bastard!" Luke cries before firing off a few rounds that slap the beast in the face.

The manticore temporarily looses interest in us, turning his attention on Luke. The psychic begins to back himself into the forest in a successful attempt to draw the monster away from us.

I rapidly shrug my plaid shirt from my arms and tear it in half. I let one piece fall to the ground, the other I gently but quickly wrap around Dean's bleeding forearm. His fresh wounds look deep. I wouldn't be surprised if a vein or two has been severed. He's lucky the creature missed the artery.

"Damnit," Dean curses under his breath as he begrudgingly allows me to tend to his injury.

"At least this one didn't break your arm," I point out.

"Yeah, this is way better," Dean mutters sarcastically, rolling his eye as he speaks. "I think I broke a couple fingers on his face." He pauses, noticing my torn t-shirt. "You're bleeding."

I glance down. Blood stains the white shirt where the manticore's claws ripped through the fabric.

"It's not that bad," I shrug it off as I tie the makeshift bandage. "Can you still hold a gun?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I've used a gun with broken fingers," he responds.

I shove my rifle into his hands. His master plan of setting the manticore's insides on fire went south pretty early on and he doesn't appear to have brought much in the way for backup weapons.

"Not a suicide mission, huh?" I grumble.

"Nope," he denies.

Whatever. There'll be time to argue that later. Right now Luke needs our help.

I scoop up my bow and rejoin the battle, carefully aiming each arrow before sending it towards the creature's mouth.

For a while we fight to no avail. The manticore swipes at one of us while hissing at another and swinging its tail. We all dodge and jump and fire weapons at the thing. It goes like this, like a dance routine, for what feels like forever. We're all dirty and scratched up and tired, but we've got to be getting close to the end.

Just when I think we've got this thing worn out, I realize what's been happening. We're not wearing _him_ out. He's wearing _us_ out.

He's been playing with us. This has all just been a game to him. And now it's over.

I realize this when he begins swinging his claws more forcefully and his teeth begin to snap a little more purposefully. I really connect the dots when he begins using his tail. I mean _really_ begins using it. Instead of swinging it back and forth, he begins making use of the pointed bulge at the end as if it was a fist.

"Watch the tip," Luke advises as I tumble out of its way. "It's poisonous."

"Right," I nod, rising to a knee before firing an arrow at the beast. "Don't these things have darts they shoot out of their tail, too?"

The words have barely left my mouth when something strikes Luke's left shoulder. His eyes grow wide as he gasps before his knees buckle.

"Dean!" I cry, racing to Luke's side.

"Son of a bitch," he groans, collapsing into my arms. "I knew that was going to happen, too."

A small, black dagger shaped dart sticks out of his shoulder.

"What happened?" Dean joins me at Luke's side, though his attention remains on the manticore.

"He's been poisoned," I hurriedly explain. "We gotta get him out of here."

"Take him back to your truck," Dean instructs me, taking shots at the manticore. "Get him to the hospital. I'll hold this ugly motherfucker off."

"Dean -"

" _GO!_ "

Now's not the time to argue. I quickly help Luke to his feet, which are unstable at best. He wraps his right arm around my shoulders, using me as a crutch as we flee through the trees. We're able to get a little distance between us and the monster, but we don't make it to the parking lot. I know Luke is giving it all he's got, but he has less than he did when we started this whole stupid hunt and he's getting weaker with each passing second. Suddenly his legs give way. He falls to his hands and knees and throws up.

"Come on," I try to pick him up, but he won't budge. "Come on, damn it!"

"... can't," Luke coughs as he rolls onto his back. "I can't..."

"I have to get you to the hospital," I insist.

"No," Luke shakes his head. He clutches at the dart still lodged in his shoulder. With a loud groan, he pulls it from his body and carelessly tosses it aside.

"No?" I echo, glancing between Luke and the woods behind me. "What do you mean 'no'?"

"... can't do anything for me there," he groans.

"Then tell me what to do," I say, my tone borderline desperate. "What do you need?"

"Nothing," Luke says. "... only way to cure someone poisoned by a manticore... to kill it."

"Got it. Let me at least get you to the truck."

"No," he refuses. "... won't come after me... thinks I'm dead."

"I'm not going to leave you in the woods like this," I tell him.

"You're right," Luke nods. "You're not."

"I can't save you if the manticore is still out there," I point out before glancing back once again, looking out for Dean and the manticore.

"Dean... he'll kill it," he tells me before moaning in pain. "... drowns it."

"Drowns it?" I echo.

"Manticores can't swim."

"Why didn't you mention that earlier?" I question, somewhat annoyed. "We could have gotten this thing done a lot sooner if you'd..."

"... was trying to keep... away from the cliffs," Luke tries to explain, speaking through the mind-numbing pain he's clearly experiencing.

"Why?" I want to know.

"Thought I could... aghhhh... change the outcome," he tells me before attempting to laugh away the pain. "Guess it always had to be this way."

"What aren't you telling me, Luke?" I question suspiciously.

For a moment, Luke stays silent, save for a few groans.

"The cliffs..." he begins at last. "Ben... the cliffs... it's where Dean dies."

"What?" I whisper in disbelief.

Now it makes sense, what he said earlier. What I'd say if I saw Dean, to hold onto the idea of peaceful reconciliation. Because Luke is pretty sure I'll never see Dean again.

"No."

Luke frowns.

"No?"

"I'm not going to let that happen," I say, gathering up my bow.

"Ben, don't..." he attempts to warn me.

"Can you hold your rifle?" I ignore him.

"I'll be okay here," Luke assures me. "But you can't..."

"I have to go," I tell him, turning my back to him as I rise to my feet.

"Ben... Ben!" Luke tries to call out as I walk away.

I don't turn around. I can't. I have to do whatever it takes to get rid of this manticore and save Dean.

My pace quickens to a speed walk before I break into a full run. My heart races as I fly through the trees, my mind silently praying it's not too late, or that Luke's vision is wrong.

_Dear god, let his vision be wrong._

The trees begin to thin out as the ground gradually gets rockier until I've reached the end of the forest. I stand just beyond the trees and scan the new landscape before me, well illuminated by the full moon above. A few evergreens grow here and there out of rock, which juts out a ways before it seems to fall off into the vast, frigid waters of Lake Superior.

Dead ahead, near the edge of the cliff, I spy the manticore and Dean, still battling it out. Dean doges the monster's tail, fires his gun at its face, then ducks from a poison dart. He slams his body into the beast, attempting to push it over the edge, but the manticore doesn't budge.

I reach for an arrow and find I have only one left. I still have two knives and a handgun. Gotta make each shot count now...

My attention is drawn to an object that lays on the ground just a few feet in front of me. Dean's flare gun.

_Perfect._

I pick it up and rush forward. I stop when I'm close enough to make sure I hit my mark, but far enough away to go unnoticed by the monster.

_Heads or tails? Face or feet?_

Feet. If it doesn't send him over the edge, it'll probably freak him out. He'll keep his ugly mouth open long enough for Dean or me to get a bullet inside.

I aim the gun at the manticore's feet and quickly fire it off. The flare hits the monster in the shin and rolls between his feet where it smolders for a couple of seconds before the bright red light flashes and pops.

The manticore screams and jumps back. Right off the cliff. And suddenly, everything begins to play in slow motion.

The manticore begins his descent to the inland sea below. Dean whirls around to find the source of the flare. Just as his eye locks onto me, the manticore's tail lashes out. It hugs itself around Dean's midsection and pulls him backwards.

Time resumes to its normal pace.

And they're both gone.

"No..."


	28. Cliffhanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben tries to save Dean from plummeting to his death, but Dean isn't interested in being saved.

" _NO!_ "

What have I done? I just killed Dean Winchester. I just killed my father.

No wonder Luke was so adamant I stay behind. It wasn't just Dean he was trying to keep away from the cliff. He was trying to keep me from doing exactly this.

Maybe it's not my fault. Maybe he would have fallen either way. He was dancing pretty damn close to the edge. Maybe he would have managed to shove the manticore off the cliff, but ended up going over himself.

Who am I kidding? This is all my fault.

I drop the flare gun. I run straight ahead, dropping my bow and remaining arrow as I tear through the night. At the cliff's edge, I fall to my knees and peer down.

Floating face down amongst the waves is the still body of the manticore, but the monster drifts alone. To my relief and horror, Dean hasn't toppled all the way into the lake. Instead he clings to the face of the cliff with his left hand.

"Dean!" I cry.

I immediately reposition myself so I'm laying flat on my stomach. Ignoring the stinging sensations of dirt and rock against my fresh wounds, I reach down with my right hand which almost but doesn't quite reach Dean's.

"Dean!" I cry over the sound of wind and waves. "Grab my hand!"

He lifts his right hand up in a feeble attempt to grasp mine, but relaxes it at his side when it won't quite reach.

"I can't," he calls back.

"The hell you can't," I challenge, attempting to stick my arm out even further. "Give me your hand."

"I'm sorry, Ben," he tells me.

A lump forms in my throat. Only dead men apologize when they're hanging off the side of a cliff.

"No," I shake my head.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He tears his gaze away from me, staring down into the dark, icy abyss. "I can't hold on."

"Don't let go," I half command, half beg. "Don't you dare let go. If the fall doesn't kill you, the lake will."

Dean gives me a sorrowful look.

"I know." He pauses to gauge just how far he'll fall if he lets go. "You were right," he tells me, glancing back up. "I wasn't planning on walking away from this hunt."

"But you can," I insist, waving my hand at him. "Just take my hand!"

"I can't..." he tells me again. "I can't watch another person die, Ben. I just can't. Especially not you."

"Then I won't die," I say. "I'm a Winchester, right? Don't Winchesters have, like, a hundred lives or something?"

Dean doesn't respond to this. Instead he looks back down at the dark waves below.

"Don't you do it, Dean," I tell him. "Don't you let go."

"I'm sorry, Ben," he apologizes again.

"No," I shake my head. "No! Don't leave me, Dean. Not again. Not like this."

My heart races as I notice his hand begins to loose its grasp on the rock.

"Dean!" I shout.

His hand slips a little more.

"DEAN!"

His gaze remains fastened on the water he's determined to make his grave.

"DAD!"

This catches his attention. He blinks up at me, baffled by what I've just shouted.

"Please," I plead as a single fat tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek. "Just take my hand."

For a moment, Dean just stares up at me with a look of sudden realization. Like he knew he was my father, but until now, he didn't really _know_. Finally, Dean swings his right arm up. I can't quite reach it. I strain my arm, and I still can't reach. I inch my body further over the cliff's edge as Dean uses all his strength to lift himself as much as he can with his left hand.

Suddenly, his left hand slips.

Had I waited a millisecond longer to reach down, Dean would be falling through the night to his watery grave. But at the absolute last possible moment, my right hand clasps tightly around his. With every ounce of strength I have, I slowly lift him up and away from certain death. I grab onto his wrist with my left hand for a better grip and gradually begin to sit myself up from my stomach for better leverage.

Once I've gotten him to the cliff's edge, he pulls himself up the rest of the way. Wearily he crawls clear of the ledge before collapsing onto his back. His chest heaves with a deep, heavy breath as he stares straight up at the starry sky above. He gently cradles his right hand in his left, his injuries a bit more painful now than they'd been when he first received them.

I keep my seat near the ledge, watching a freighter pass on the horizon as I catch my breath and thank any god or angel listening that Luke's premonition didn't come to pass. Watching the vast lakescape aglow in the moonlight, it all begins to sink in. How close to death we came tonight. How we all managed to escape our reaper, despite the fact staying alive wasn't intentional for everyone.

"Promise me you'll never do that again," I beg Dean, looking away from the northern scenery to rest my eyes on him.

"Yeah, no problem," he says. "I don't think there's another manticore in the states, anyway."

"You know that's not what I mean," I roll my eyes.

Dean gradually sits up and gives me an afflicted look.

"I'm not going to make promises I can't keep," he tells me.

"You can't promise me you'll stop all these suicide missions?" I question.

He doesn't respond. Instead he breaks out his flask and takes a long, hard drink.

"Look," I say with a sigh. "I know you've lost a lot of people, and what happened to Sam... I can't imagine how that feels. But I do know what it's like to go your whole life without someone, and I can tell you how much it would suck to lose that person right after you've finally found them."

Dean remains silent, but I know he hears me.

"I can forgive you for not getting behind my decision to stay in the life," I tell him sincerely. "And I can forgive you for freaking out and leaving me at my mom's when you found out that I'm your son. But if you kill yourself—if you keep on chasing monsters you don't think you stand a chance against—I will never, _ever_ forgive you."

This seems to reach Dean, who lowers his flask. He furrows his brows in thought as he lets my words sink in.

"Fair enough," he says at last before taking a small sip of whiskey.

He rises to his feet and tucks his flask back into his pocket.

"You know," Dean awkwardly begins as I stand. "You calling me 'dad' back there. I kind of liked that. It has a nice ring to it."

"Yeah," I nod. "I guess it kind of does."

It's a word I've never gotten to use. Not frequently and never directly. It's kind of nice I have someone I can use it on now.

"Listen," he goes on as we begin making tracks for the forest. "The Impala doesn't feel right without a passenger. I was thinking, since you're not bailing on the life any time soon, maybe you'd like to ride with me again?"

"Is this you accepting my hunter status?" I question with a raised brow.

"I still don't like it," he admits. "But since you're not going anywhere, I might as well deal with it. Besides, someone's gotta teach you how to fight like a Winchester."

I grin at the thought. Dean and Ben, the unstoppable father and son team.

It's a fun notion. It is. And a big part of me really wants to make that vision come to life. But another part of me remembers what being on the road with Dean is like. A small part of me is still a little angry, too, despite my heat-of-the-moment forgiveness speech.

"Dean," I begin with a sigh. "Dad. I..."

Dean gives me a hopeful look.

Then again, maybe this is how he can redeem himself. He had been getting more pleasant since Minneapolis before the fiasco at mom's. He deserves a chance. Besides, a father-son team up _does_ sound equal to or greater than absolute awesome.

I smile.

"I'd like that," I reply.

Dean smiles. He'll never say it, but I can tell by the way he looks at me I've just made his decade. There's a subtle spark in his eye I haven't seen since I was a kid.

"Right," he tries to play it cool. "Good. Great." He clears his throat, attempting to hide how giddy he feels. "So, uh... where to?"

"We should probably go check on Luke," I say.

"What'd you do with him?" Dean questions.

"He's fine," I assure him without detailing how I left him laying in the middle of the woods. "I guess the cure was to kill the manticore who poisoned him. But we should probably get you to the hospital, old man."

"I'm really not that old," Dean protests. "And I've had worse."

I glance down at the plaid makeshift bandage wrapped around his arm, which is now soaked in blood. I cock a brow at him.

"Fine," he gives in. "We'll go to the damn hospital. But then we're going to get you a haircut. You're starting to look like a hippy."

I roll my eyes and laugh as I run my hand through my dark, shaggy hair.

"Whatever," I say with a small grin. "Dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold tight, everyone. I've got one more chapter (or an epilogue, as it were) for you.


	29. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben spots a familiar ghost at a gas station.

_Between Here & There_

Six Months Later

It's early. Too early to be awake, especially the morning after a hunt. But the sun's too bright to let me sleep, so I lumber out of the car and into the chilly morning air. I pull the hood of my blue-green hoodie over my head and lean against the passenger's side of the Impala with a tall paper cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

"Nice shades," Dean—or dad as he's now called—comments somewhat sarcastically as he begins to fill the gas tank.

"It's bright," I defend. "Aviators are sweet... and they hide my shiner."

"I can't believe you let a vampire sucker-punch you," he chuckles.

"I figured it would make him feel better about the fact he was about to loose his head," I give an obviously false excuse.

A small smile finds its way to my lips. So far, the sequel to Dean and Ben on the hunting trail has been kind of awesome. It's more or less what I had daydreamed things would be like when we first teamed up. It's not all sunshine and rainbows; he's still pretty rough around the edges, he can't quite seem to give up his whiskey and once in a while he can't help but feel a little bitter about something or other. But he's getting better. And now whenever he gives me crap, it's usually jokingly. Like how he just laughed about my face getting in the way of a vampire's fist.

All in all, it's been pretty great so far.

"You lookin' for a case?" Dean/dad questions as I glance over articles in the paper I hold.

"Mostly I was just reading the news," I reply. "Why? Should I be?"

"Naw," he shakes his head. "I wouldn't mind a day off. Anyway, I think Crowley's up to something. His minions have been a little too quiet for a little too long."

"Great," I mutter sarcastically. "Can't wait to check into that one."

"You need anything?" he asks me as he returns the gas nozzle to the pump.

"Is it too early for beef jerky and beer?" I question, watching him round the car.

"That's my boy," he grins as he begins walking towards the convent store. "One breakfast of champions coming up."

I glance back down at the paper for a moment before realizing what my eyes had briefly glimpsed. It was so quick and seemingly ordinary my mind didn't instantly process how unusual it actually was.

Standing beside the ice box was a man. A very tall man in plaid and denim with a light brown mane. A thirty-something year old who looked like someone I haven't seen in a very long time.

_No way..._

Quickly I look back up, but he's gone. I twist around to inspect the station, but he's nowhere to be seen.

"It's too early in your career to be cracking up, Ben," I mutter to myself as I place my newspaper and coffee on the Impala's roof.

I refuse to believe I'm going insane.

I jog to the ice box where I could have sworn I saw him standing. I remove my shades and lower my hood as I round the corner of the convenient store...

And there he is. The tall man in plaid with a great head of hair. He stands right in front of me with a small smile.

Sam Winchester.

For minute I just gawk up at him (which is a somewhat incredible in and of itself considering I'm a good six feet tall myself).

Is this real life?

"Hello, Ben," he nods at me.

"Are you really here right now?" I ask. "Or did that hippy at the coffee place add a psychedelic flare to my cup of joe?"

"I'm really here," he assures me I'm not experiencing a mind-altering trip down Far Out Lane. "Sort of."

"Are you... you know...?"

"Dead?" Sam finishes for me. "Yeah. For almost a decade now."

"You never know," I defend my question. "You guys have a tendency to not stay dead."

"Touché."

"So you're a ghost then?" I half ask, half state.

"I guess technically," he replies. "I mean, I'm definitely a spirit. I'm just not trapped in the veil. I'm kind of free to go wherever."

"Oh," I say. "Dad—Dean—is just in the store. Let me go get -"

"No," the ghost of Sam cuts me off. "Don't. I don't want him to see me."

"Why not?" I question, furrowing my brows in a curious confusion. "He'd kill to see you."

"I know," he acknowledges with a nod. "Believe me, I know. And I'd like to let him see me. Really, I would. But he's finally starting to move past what happened. I think him seeing me again might prolong the whole healing process."

"Oh... kay..." I slowly say with uncertainty. "Why are you here then?"

"I'm leaving," he tells me.

"I'm lost," I admit. "You came all the way here to not see your brother and remind us that you've been gone?"

"What? No," Sam shakes his head. "I've been here this whole time."

Wait, what?

"Now, when you say 'here'...?"

"With Dean," he confirms.

_Woah._

And here Dean thought he'd been alone all these years. Turns out he never was.

"I thought your soul..."

"Was scattered across the stars?" he finishes for me. "It was. And then I was fixed."

"By who?"

"Who do you think?" Sam replies with another question and a smile.

I assume he means God, but the look on his face says he won't tell for certain.

"So this is goodbye then?"

"For now, anyway," he nods. "Like you said, you never know."

"Why now?" I curiously question.

Sam smiles.

"Because Dean doesn't need me anymore," he says. "He's got you now."

In a way, I feel kind of honored by this. Like Sam's passing me the torch that keeps Dean going.

"Would you do something for me?" Sam asks.

"Sure," I agree. Who am I to deny the request of a dead man?

"Tell Dean I forgive him," he tells me with a breath of sincerity.

"Yeah," I say. "Of corse I'll tell him."

"Not today."

"When?"

"The next time you think he needs to hear it," he says.

"I'll let him know," I swear.

"Thanks," Sam says. He pauses to give me a smile. "Take care of your old man for me," he instructs. "Don't make me come back down here."

"I will," I promise.

"Oh," he adds before he takes his leave. "Tell Cas to stop looking for me. I'm not lost anymore."

"What are you doing?"

The voice comes unexpectedly from behind, causing me to whirl around. Dad stands before me with a brown paper bag and an inquisitive expression on his face.

"Uh," I begin.

Guess he's going to see Sam after all. I turn around to glance back at ghost Sam, but he's gone.

"I was just..." I look around for my deceased uncle, but he's nowhere to be found. I look back to dad. "... relieving myself."

"Bathroom's inside," he points out.

"Oh."

"You feelin' okay?" he questions with a raised brow. "That hippy didn't slip something in your coffee, did he?"

"I don't think so," I shake my head.

"Alright," he says as we head back to the Impala. "Just let me know if you start seeing purple people or think we've driven into bat country and I'll find a nice motel for you to ride the trip out in."

"Will do," I respond with a small laugh as I slide into the passenger's seat with my coffee and newspaper.

"Hey," dad says after he's gotten behind the wheel. "Yellowstone's not too far from here. You ever been?"

"Can't say I have," I shake my head.

"Wouldn't be a bad way to kill time before we figure out what Crowley's up to," he half states, half suggests. "Watch a geyser, see some buffalo, drink a few beers."

I smile as I slip my aviators over my eyes.

"Yellowstone it is," I nod as dad starts the old car and AC/DC floods the speakers.

As we pull away from the station, I catch a glimpse of Sam in the side mirror, standing in the dust with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, watching us drive onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Sort of. I am making this a collection as I have a few shorts I will be working on that go with this particular story/AU. I already have a two-parter written regarding Dean and how he lost his eye. I have been toying with the idea of writing a sequel and/or prequel, but I make no promises as I've been fairly preoccupied AND am currently working on two other fanfics and an original story.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


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